A Kingdom by the Sea
by P.H. Wise
Summary: Begins with an alternate take on 'Time Bomb.'What if Illyria were having trouble with her shell for a slightly... different reason? An AngelHighlander crossover.
1. Though Much Is Taken, Much Abides

A Kingdom By The Sea  
An Angel Crossover Fanfic  
by P.H. Wise

Prologue: Though Much Is Taken, Much Abides

Disclaimer: I don't own Angel. I don't own Highlander. I'm not making any money off of this.

* * *

God works in mysterious ways, it is said. Certainly none were so odd as the case of Winifred Burkle. Country girl from a loving Texan family goes to Los Angeles to study to be a physicist, gets sucked into a hell dimension, rescued by a vampire with a soul, becomes a champion for the Powers That Be, and ends up dying, getting hollowed out by an Old One, which then takes up residence inside her body and uses as its own.

Fred Burkle was well and truly dead. Her soul, her fellow champions had been told, had been consumed by the fires of the Old One's – Illyria's – rebirth. They'd gone and checked. Used the axis of Pythia. Her soul was nowhere to be found. They'd concluded that it had, in fact, been destroyed.

But they were all of them deceived.

Illyria gasped in shock as another tremor ran through her. Something was not right here. This shouldn't be happening. Something was fighting her. It had begun fighting her the moment Fred had died. It might have fought her forever had the conflict between it and her own energy not proved too much strain for the shell to hold. "I possess so much grace," she said, "more grace than this bag of sticks could express. I was the immaculate embodiment of rule," a glowing blue fracture appeared on her cheek, and her body began to crack. "I blame this on the weakness of your species." Blue light flooded out of the cracks, and also something else; a wind picked up within the training room, and bolts of electrical energy like lightning shot out from her body, swirling up into great arcs that nearly touched the ceiling before they plunged back into her.

"Wesley, what are you waiting for?" Angel yelled. "It's our only chance!"

Wesley's eyes widened, and he gripped the mutari generator almost desperately. "Wait, Angel..."

Angel cut him off. "I've seen how this ends, Wes. If you don't shoot her, she explodes, and we all die."

Illyria lifted into the air and began to scream. The blue light and the lightning surged around her. Wes lowered the mutari generator.

"Quickening..." he breathed, barely daring to hope.

"WES!"

Angel leaped for the mutari generator.

Illyria exploded.

A terrific wave of blue energy shot out from her levitating form, washing over Angel, and Spike, and Wesley, and Gunn. It washed over the Wolfram and Hart building. Over Los Angeles. Over California. Over the United States. Over the Americas. Over the world. Every demon, human, vampire, and animal looked up in shock as Illyria's power surged past them. Most of them simply shuddered as it passed, and then convinced themselves that they were simply seeing things. Others – those that knew better – saw it for what it was, and were deeply worried by it. All the way around the world it went. Around the world, and back again, back through California, back through Los Angeles, back through Wolfram and Hart, and finally, back into Illyria.

The light winked out, and Fred fell bonelessly to the training room floor.

Angel, Lorne, Spike and Wesley stared at her fallen form with varying expressions of shock.

And then she began to stir.

At the same moment, every Immortal the world over felt a buzz like the presence of another Immortal, accompanied by a terrible, pounding pressure, a sense of writhing, and a thrill of horror the likes of which none had ever sensed before in all the long years of their lives.

Far away, in the city of Seacouver, Adam Pierson and Duncan MacLeod sat at the bar in Joe's Blues club when the presence came. Both of them stiffened in shock, and MacLeod nearly fell out of his seat. He looked around wildly, but no other Immortal was nearby.

He exchanged a worried look with Adam.

"OK," Adam said, "Now what the hell was that?"

END PROLOGUE

* * *

Author's notes:

It may be a little while before I update this story again. It began as the product of writer's block while writing Epigoni, but it seems to be taking on a life of its own, and already I'm seeing many, many ways it could go. I suppose we'll see what happens.

In any case, please let me know what you liked, what you didn't like, and most importantly, why.


	2. That Which We Are, We Are

She'd hung suspended there for what seemed like forever. It was dark, and it was warm. Weightless, and also bodiless, she drifted endlessly. Time stretched out until it no longer had any meaning. She was safe here, but outside the door of her retreat, a monster lay in wait. It had hurt her horribly, once upon a time. So much that it had nearly destroyed her. But her torment had ended when she'd retreated here, and thus far, the monster had not been able to gain access. They fought, the girl and the monster. Not with swords or blows or magic, but simply by existing. So this was death. 'Funny,' she thought, as much as she was able to think in that state, 'I'd expected something different.'

And different it became.

After an eternity in the safe, warm darkness, something changed. Light intruded upon her prison for the first time, well, ever. Great cracks ran through the walls, and a brilliant blue light poured in. She did not need to be told that this was the monster's light. Instinctively, she lashed out against it, and lightning crackled along the border, doing battle with the blue light. Energies writhed in that terrible inner space. More and more cracks appeared in the walls of the prison/sanctuary, and then, all at once, it shattered. The blue light fled, and she was moving. She was moving upwards.

Up.

Ever and onwards, up.

It grew bright around her. Lightning crackled wildly, and her shapelessness became clothed in flesh.

The blue light returned.

There was pain.

She fought with all that she had, knowing that she would not get another chance like this again. She fought with everything she was.

And she won.

More or less.

With one brilliant, terrible burst, she emerged out of darkness and into the world. She was being born. She was being reborn. Her pupils dialated, and her eyes seemed to thaw. The blue faded from her hair – somewhat. She took in a great, glorious breath, and all at once figures strange and unfamiliar swirled in her confused vision. She couldn't make sense of it. Light and colour merged together in unrecognizable patterns. She clenched her eyes shut, and began to cough. Each great wracking cough sent waves of agony through her. She felt as though her lungs were on fire. Her entire body burned. She felt her heart beat a laboured beat. It beat again, this time stronger. Again and again, and each beat felt like a hammer being smashed against her chest.

She opened her eyes. That man. She recognized that man. "Wesley?" she asked weakly. "My Wesley?" She tried to sit up, but her vision swam, and she fainted.

* * *

A Kingdom By The Sea  
An Angel Crossover Fanfic  
by P.H. Wise

Chapter 1: That Which We Are, We Are

Disclaimer: I don't own Angel. I don't own Highlander. I'm not making any money off of this.

* * *

Wesley stared at Fred's fallen body in shock, and he was not alone in this. Spike, Angel and Lorne alike seemed unable to believe the evidence of their senses. Both Angel and Spike sniffed the air, and for a moment, Wesley wondered what they were doing. It occurred to him a moment later: her scent. Fred's scent. They were smelling her, and not Illyria.

He looked down at her sleeping face, so peaceful now in comparison to the last time he had seen her. She looked like an angel.

Emotion welled up within him, felt too powerfully to be quantified as any one feeling, and he burst into tears, clutching her desperately, only half convinced that she really was back.

He knew she was back. She had to be. He had seen her quickening doing battle with Illyria's essence. That she was Immortal came as a shock. It meant that she'd have to deal with a number of things now... things he'd never wanted for her. But it had not yet come to that, and if she was really back, he would make damn sure that it never would.

He had no idea whether or not an Immortal's essence could survive possession by an Old One intact, but it gave him hope. She was here.

* * *

Winifred Burkle awoke some time later. She was in a hospital bed, and for a moment, she had a peculiar sense of double vision, one field of vision hyper-acute and tinged blue, and the other normal. The blue faded, and the normal remained. Wesley was seated at her side, with Angel, Lorne, Spike, and Gunn all crowding round. Theirs was the joy of the springtime, of the sunrise, of the first cry of the newborn. Wesley was crying, and the others looked ready to join him.

"Fred," he said, and there was a note of desperate hope in his voice, "How are you feeling?"

"Like I got run over by a truck," she replied, and her voice sounded unfamiliar to ears that had grown unused to hearing it. "What? Why are y'all looking at me like that?"

The others exchanged glances.

"We, ah," Angel began.

"Right," Spike said, stepping forward. "It's like this. We need you to sing for us so as we know that Bluebird's really flown the coup."

The others nodded in agreement.

Fred met Wesley's desperately hopeful gaze, and couldn't help but think of how much he resembled a little lost puppy at that moment. She smiled. "You are my sunshine," she began singing, "My only sunshine, you make me happy when skies are gray..."

Lorne recoiled slightly, wincing even as he clenched his eyes shut.

"What?" Angel said, "Is it Illyria? Is she still there?"

"Holy sea-breeze," Lorne said. "Ow ow ow. Freddikins, remind me never to do that again."

"What did you see?" Wesley asked.

"Oh, Lyree's still in there," Lorne said. The hope that had shone so brightly in Wesley's eyes dimmed slightly. "She's just not the only one who's in there. Our little Winifred is back and better than ever! Except looking at her aura packs a wallop like the morning after a twelve hour drinking binge."

Fred grew troubled at that. "That thing that... killed me, it's still inside me?"

Lorne nodded. "But don't you worry about a thing, Sweetcakes," he said, doing his best to sound cheerful, "I'm sure that with the full arsenal of Wolfram and Hart at our disposal, we'll have that nasty old Old One out of you in no time."

Even as he said it, Fred knew it wasn't true. Not that Lorne was lying to her. He plainly at least wanted to believe what he was saying. But Illyria... she doubted she'd ever be free of her.

"Do you need anything, Fred?" Wesley asked. "Anything at all?"

Her stomach rumbled.

"I could go for some tacos," she said.

Wesley smiled. "Of course."

* * *

It was some two days later that Fred was finally able to leave Wolfram and Hart's hospital and go home, and Wesley spent most of it at her side, even going so far as to bring his work with him and do it by the side of her hospital bed. But now, she was finally back in her own room, and alone for the first time since she'd woken up. Wesley had escorted her back to the apartment, but had not come in – he knew that she needed some time alone to process what had happened, and she loved him for it.

She felt grimy, like she needed a shower. And she really wanted to get out of the strange leather catsuit that she'd woken up in. It clung to her like a second skin, but it was starting to chafe, and she was pretty sure that she probably stank to high heaven underneath it.

She prepared a change in clothing for herself – jeans, bra, panties, and a nice blouse – and set it down on the sink. That was when she got a first look at herself. They had been very careful at Wolfram and Hart not to bring any mirrors near her, and she had suspected that she probably looked awful.

She was right. And she was wrong.

She looked... inhuman. She studied the person in the mirror in a state of near shock – it was still her body, but so much was different... Her eyes were no longer brown, but now a peculiar shade of crystalline blue. Her hair no longer had the very slight waviness that was natural to it, but was now straight, and streaked with blue, though she suspected it might regain some of its wave if she were to wash it. Her lips were faintly blue as well – they looked... frozen, almost. But the most distressing to her was the blue tinged flesh of her forehead, and her neck.

She tugged at the catsuit, but it wouldn't give. She tried to find a zipper or some means of removing it.

There was none.

She began to panic. Frantically she tugged at it and pulled at it, and even went so far as to find a knife and attempt to cut it off.

No luck.

She felt trapped. Smothered. The walls were closing in all around her. Her eyes flashed, and she cringed, and huddled down on the floor, out of the view of that hateful mirror, and of the creature she saw looking back at her.

"Shell," a contemptuous voice said.

She recognized it as her own, though she had not spoken.

Slowly, she rose to her feet, forcing herself not to panic, not to collapse in on herself. She could feel the Other there, waiting for her guard to falter, waiting for a chance to seize control.

She met the gaze of the creature in the mirror.

"Shell," her reflection said.

Fred glared at it. "My name is Winifred," she said.

"How have you done this?" Illyria said. "How have you overcome me? How can a mere mortal live after being used as fuel for the glory of my rebirth?"

Pain wracked her body for a moment, and she staggered. She recovered a moment later, and glared at Illyria.

"Your organs continue to regenerate. Again and again, they are liquified by my power, and they regenerate. How is this possible?"

"Maybe you just aren't that cool," Fred replied, not feeling at all charitable towards the thing that had taken her body.

Illyria's expression hardened. "You will not treat me with such disrespect. I am Illyria, god-king of the primordium, shaper of things!"

"And now you're stuck with me," Fred said.

Illyria visibly grew angry at that. She reached through the mirror and seized Fred by the throat, and began to squeeze. A moment later, Fred realized that she was holding her own throat. With a shudder, she released herself.

She took a few moments to recover, and then met her reflection's gaze. "How do I get out of this ... outfit?"

Illyria tilted her head to the side, birdlike. "You ask a favor of me?"

Fred thought about it. "... Yes."

"I will ask a favor in turn, shell, though it rankles that I should even be in such a position to bargain with a shell, of all things."

Fred nodded. "Just tell me how to get out of this."

"Will it."

Fred thought about that. Then she tried it. No luck. She met her double's gaze.

"You are not trying," Illyria said contemptuously.

Fred grit her teeth. "Fine," she hissed. Abruptly, the catsuit dropped off of her, and she was nude.

The sense of Illyria's presence faded. She started the shower, and as she waited for the water to warm up, she considered her body in the mirror.

The streaks of blue ran down her form in a very definite pattern that bore some small resemblance to the mottled skin of a chameleon, interspersed with her normal flesh tone, with the flesh tone as the dominant colour.

She shuddered, and stepped into the shower.

An hour later, she was washed, dried, and clothed. Her hair had regained its natural slight waviness, and the blue streaks on her skin felt raw from the scrubbing she had given them in a vain effort to uncover normal skin beneath. The sense of rawness faded rapidly, as did the redness. Though she had scrubbed her left hand till it bled, she had watched it heal before her eyes.

Between this, her altered appearance, and the fact that she had felt no urge to use the facilities since she had awoken – though she had felt hunger - she could only wonder what other surprises Illyria had left her with.

She'd tried concealing the blue skin with makeup, but that had only ended up making her look worse. The one plus to this whole Illyria transformation was that she doubted she'd ever need to use makeup again. This was, unfortunately, counterbalanced by the fact that she'd never be able to use normal makeup again, either. Her complexion was too radically changed for any of the common store-bought makeup to work with it. A professional makeup job by a makeup artist might be feasible, but her knowledge of such was limited. That was something to look into, she supposed.

Still, she was on the whole feeling much more human now, and the bag of taco-bell food lying on her kitchen counter – bought by Wesley on the drive back to her apartment - went a long way towards improving her mood. It wasn't really Mexican food. Not really. But it would do for now.

* * *

Wesley sat by the door of Fred's apartment. He had not left since dropping her off here. He stared down at the tattoo on the wrist of his left hand, unsure of what he should do.

Although such information was a highly guarded secret, the Watchers had a mission beyond the care for and direction of the Slayer. And although the First's culling had killed most of those involved in the training and care of the Potentials, the other divisions of the Watcher's Council had remained, for the most part, untouched. His organization had watched the Immortals for nearly as long as they had cared for the Slayers.

Idly, he wondered who they would send to watch Fred, if they should learn of her immortality.

Although he was no longer a Watcher, he knew that he could still access a great deal of their information through the template books at Wolfram and Hart. He could find someone to train her. Someone to give her the skills she needed to stay alive. Someone he could be reasonably sure was not going to try to take her head. Perhaps one of the MacLeods.

But the thought of his Winifred as a player in the Game, his Winifred taking heads, was almost more than he could bear.

Oh, he knew that she had intended to kill a man once before. She'd intended to kill the Professor who had sent her to Pylea. And he'd helped her. But that was different. That was ... not justice. The man had deserved to die. He had gotten what he deserved, though not by Fred's hands.

He thought about telling Fred about being Immortal, and what it meant. And what it would mean for a very long time, unless someone took her head.

He thought about it.

He stood up, and reached out to knock on the door.

He reached out, and he stopped.

No, he wouldn't subject Fred to that. He would protect her. Keep her safe. Any Immortal who came after her would do so only over his own dead body. And he had two great advantages that they did not: he was under no obligation to follow the rules of the game, and he had access to the Watcher's database.

Besides, he'd known long ago that he would kill for her.

* * *

END CHAPTER 1

Author's notes:

Feedback is most definitely welcome – particularly constructive criticism. Nothing makes me happier than to know what specifically you (the reader) liked, what you didn't like, and (most importantly) why.


	3. A Bringer of New Things

Angel sat surrounded by all the comforts that Wolfram and Hart had brought him. Comfortable leather chairs, necro-tempered glass, all the animal blood he could ever want, riches, power, the works, and for all of it, he was yet unsatisfied. None of this was what he was looking for.

He was brooding.

He didn't know what to think about the most recent development in the lives of his friends – in the lives of his family; his disfunctional, helpless helping family.

Fred was alive.

The thought of it gave him hope. It gave him another reason to keep fighting. Her soul had not been lost. His dear, dear friend was alive.

But with Fred's resurrection, all his plans had been derailed. If he was going to get into the Circle of the Black Thorn, he needed the Senior Partners to think that he had sacrificed her willingly. Her subsequent resurrection threw that into doubt. To make matters worse, in all the confusion following her return, the Fell Brethren had been ignored, the expectant mother had gotten second thoughts about the arrangement, Senator Brucker's needs had not been attended to, and the Circle had put his request for entry into their order on an indefinite hold pending evidence of his true conversion to their cause.

The Apocalypse continued.

Hamilton had expressed great interest in meeting with Fred. The moment the man had asked about it, he had decided not to allow them to meet outside of the work place. He couldn't afford to alienate Hamilton, however; he couldn't afford to make it look like he was protecting Fred.

He grimaced, and he carefully considered how he was going to handle his public reaction to Winifred Burkle's return to life. There were pitfalls on either side, and his one guiding light was gone.

Cordelia was gone.

But he still had the vision she had left him with. Though he had not experienced any others since then, he still had that. The powers had shown him the Circle. His attempt to gain access to them had been foiled by the resurrection of his friend. What was he going to do about it?

It was going to be a very long night.

----------------------

A Kingdom By The Sea  
An Angel Crossover Fanfic  
by P.H. Wise

Chapter 2: A Bringer of New Things

Disclaimer: I don't own Angel. I don't own Highlander. I'm not making any money off of this.

----------------------

Charles Gunn arrived at Fred's apartment at 6:30 in the evening. The Westering sun hung low near the horizon, but it was not quite ready to set just yet. It had been nearly two weeks since Fred's resurrection, and they had seen neither hide nor hair of her in all that time. The party they were planning was being continually put off until Fred was ready. But he was beginning to doubt that she would ever be ready. Being host to an Old One probably did a number on a person. A wash of fresh guilt rose up within him, and he burned with it. It was his fault that this had happened to her, he knew. He crushed the thought as soon as it formed, but that did not stop the guilt and the shame of it from lingering on for long minutes afterward.

He knocked on the door.

There was no answer.

After about a minute, he knocked again.

No answer.

At length, he tried the door. It was unlocked.

He went in.

She was not in the entryway. Much else was. It was cluttered with scribbled notes and books and articles of clothing. Gunn raised an eyebrow.

He made his way into the apartment. "Fred?" he called.

No answer.

He found her huddled in a corner in the bedroom, staring at her hands. She was clean, and she was wearing a very flattering dark red dress. She still looked like Illyria, but the Old One's monumental arrogance and self-possession wasn't there in her face. It was Fred. Shards of broken glass lay scattered about the room.

"Fred?" he asked. "You ok?"

She didn't respond at first. She looked at him as though from across a great distance. Then her expression grew clearer, and her eyes focused on him. "Charles?" she asked.

"We've been worried about you," he said, squatting down to bring himself level with her as he looked her in the eyes. "You don't call, you don't write, only one that's seen you in weeks is Wesley. A brother might start to think he was unwanted."

Fred smiled weakly. "Not unwanted. I just... it would be awkward."

"You think you're gonna be ready to come back to work some time soon? We miss you there."

"I think it ain't unreasonable to take a few days off on account of having come back from the dead," she replied.

"OK, you have a point. But you should at least get out of the apartment. It's not healthy being shut up in here like this, Fred."

Fred shook her head, staring down at her hands. "I can't go out in public, Charles. Not like this. There'd be panic. Mass hysteria. All sorts of bad things."

Gunn's reaction was not what she expected: he laughed. He laughed out loud.

She gave him a questioning look.

"You gotta be kiddin' me," he said. "Fred, this is LA. You really think anyone's gonna so much as blink at the way you look? People see you, they won't scream 'monster,' they'll think, 'dye and body paint.'"

Fred laughed somewhat hysterically. "After all," she said, "Why should this bother them if demons walking around in public doesn't? Just another makeup job. Probably an actor on his lunch break." She giggled, but the note of hysteria had not left her voice. "Just another form of self expression." Her mirth faded, and she met his gaze, looking altogether helpless. "It won't come off, Charles. I've scrubbed and I've scrubbed, and it won't come off. I dyed my hair brown but it's still blue. It won't come off."

Gunn looked thoughtful. "Well, Illyria could appear human if she wanted. Maybe you can too? Have you been able to use any of her powers?"

Fred shook her head. "My superpower is to not let them take me, not to change my shape."

Gunn gave Fred a strange look.

"Besides," Fred said, her Texan twang ringing out loud and clear, "the last time I asked her for a favour, she made me promise to do something for her in return. Maybe I'm being unreasonable, but I don't think it'd be a good idea to owe Illyria too many favours."

"You've been talking to Illyria?"

Fred giggled. That note of hysteria was back.

If Gunn had had hair, it would have stood on end.

"Well," she said, "Maybe 'talking' isn't quite the right word. She lives in the mirror, ya see."

Gunn looked around. Shards of glass. All the mirrors in the apartment had been shattered.

"OK," he said, "That's it. Shut up in this place for days with only Illyria for company? This calls for some serious intervention." He took her by the hand and led her towards the door.

"A spiritual retreat?" Fred asked.

"More or less," Gunn replied.

-----------------------------

Wesley sat in his office, alone, working. He looked... calmer: calmer than he'd been in weeks - sane, even. His office was no longer cluttered, but once again well and even carefully organized. His underlings no longer feared to speak his name let he appear (though they still didn't much fancy running into him if they could avoid it). Altogether, he looked much better. Saner. Calmer. Happier.

He was bent over a mystic tome, studying it carefully. 'The Monstres and Their Kynde,' the cover read.

The phone rang. He answered it.

"Yes? Hello."

There came a pause.

"Yes, I can see how that would be a problem."

A pause.

Wesley thought for a moment. "... I'll be there," he said.

He stood up, leaving 'The Monstres and Their Kynde' lying open on his desk. He walked out of his office, and did not look back.

---------------------

Wesley met Fred and Gunn some fifteen minutes later in front of one of the local demon run casinos. Instantly, his breath was swept away, and he smiled. Fred was unspeakably beautiful. But then, she always had been. "May I?" he asked, holding out his right hand. "You may," she replied, offering her own.

Arm in arm, with Gunn walking close behind, they walked into the casino. As they entered, the various people and demons near the entrance glanced their way, but beyond that, paid them no mind. Wesley heard Fred breathe an audible sigh of relief.

"Charles," Fred said as they entered the casino proper, "Isn't this the place..."

"Where I damn near lost my soul in exchange for my truck? Yeah."

"Are you sure it's such a good idea to come back here?"

Gunn shrugged. "The new owner isn't into the soul-trade. She's more the shameless thief of material goods type."

"That hardly seems a glowing recommendation," Wesley said.

Gunn only grinned. A moment later, the cause of his grin became apparent – Gwen Raiden stepped out of a back room, dressed to the nines.

"Charles Gunn," she said fondly. "I was wondering when I'd see you again."

Gunn smiled. Gwen came to him, and kissed him with passion. After a moment, he returned the kiss with equal intensity.

Fred and Wesley exchanged glances. 'When had this happened?' Wesley wondered.

"Did you miss me?" Gunn asked.

Gwen laughed. "Like a bad habit."

So the night began. Wesley, Fred, Charles, and Gwen began with a few drinks at the bar. After an hour or two, Charles and Gwen wandered off on their own, leaving Fred and Wesley to themselves. Neither of them seemed to mind.

Now comfortably buzzed, Wes and Fred were having a grand old time, their troubles forgotten, at least for a little while. At first self conscious, Fred visibly relaxed as the night wore on, and the name of 'Illyria' was the furthest thing from her mind.

It was perhaps inevitable that this would be the moment that that old ninny-woman, Fate, would step in and ruin everything. For just as Wesley had worked up the courage to kiss his lady-love, and just as she had finally forgotten herself enough to allow her to enjoy the moment, she stiffened visibly, and pulled away from Wesley.

A man in dark clothes with a trench coat had entered the casino.

"What's wrong?" Wes asked.

"My head feels funny."

Wes smiled. "You've probably just had too much to drink."

Fred put her hands to her temples. "No, it's more like... there's pressure on my head, and a sound like a buzz or something."

Wesley's eyes immediately widened. 'Damn,' he thought, sobering up very quickly as adrenaline surged through his system. "We have to go. Now."

"What?" Fred asked, not understanding his urgency. She felt a peculiar need to seek out the source of this feeling. She didn't really want to leave before she found it.

"Come on," Wesley insisted.

She stood there indecisive for a moment... and then nodded.

Immediately, Wesley took her by the hand and fled for the back door.

The man followed.

Out they went, out into the alleyway behind the casino. It was dark, lit only by the red glow of the exit sign. The nearest lights were on the street some fifty yards away. A dumpster lay close at hand, its lid flung open for all the world to see.

"Who is he?" Fred asked, her voice taking on a frantic note. "What does he want?"

Wesley shook his head. "I'm not sure, but I doubt it's good. Go," he said. "I'll deal with this."

"I'm not going to leave you alone to face... whatever that man is!" Fred said.

"Fred, this is something you can't face yet. You're not ready for this. Trust me when I say I will be fine. The Hyperion is near here. I'll meet you there, when it's over. Now go! No matter what you hear, don't stop until you reach the hotel!"

Fred hesitated a moment longer, then kissed Wesley deeply. He returned the kiss with everything that was within him. Then he pulled away. She nodded, and ran.

The man in the trench coat emerged from the casino's back door a minute later.

He was an impressive figure, well muscled, with dark hair, blue eyes, and a neatly trimmed beard.

He drew his sword – an American cavalry saber from the early 1800's, unless Wesley missed his guess, and well cared for.

"Where is she?" the Immortal demanded.

"It doesn't have to be this way," Wesley said. "You can walk away. Forget you ever saw her."

"So, has she told you all about us, then?" The man snorted derisively. "It doesn't matter. There can be only one."

"Yes, I know. I intend it to be her."

The man laughed. "You're only a mortal. When you die, you'll stay dead. And then I'll have your dye-job girlfriend's head."

"I beg to differ," Wesley said.

"What? I'll only get her over your dead body?" the man raised his sword and stalked towards the ex-watcher, his face the very picture of supreme confidence.

"Something like that," said Wesley, and pulled two pistols out of his coat and shot the Immortal repeatedly in the chest.

The immortal's eyes widened, and he fell to the ground, his body wracked with pain. He coughed up blood, and he touched his gunshot wounds, and held up his own blood drenched hands before disbelieving eyes. "But I was to live forever," he said, a note of desperation in his voice.

Wesley pulled a pair of leather gloves out of his pocket and put them on. "No one lives forever," he said, and picked up the man's sword, and then beheaded him. Wesley was not an Immortal; with no power of quickening to aid him, it took him several strikes to completely decapitate the fallen Immortal, but in the end, the job was done just the same. He discarded the man's saber, took off his gloves, and then strolled leisurely out of the alleyway, whistling quietly to himself as the Immortal's quickening rose up from the spot of his death in a terrific lightning storm.

But there was no one to claim it. And all he was was wasted.

Robert Hamer, Immortal, born in Virginia in 1790, who died his first death in the War of 1812, was dead, and all that he was passed out of the Game forever.

---------------------

Gwen lay naked in her bed, with Charles Gunn asleep at her side.

He'd stolen all of the silk sheets.

Still, that didn't bother her. It was good. She was satisfied. They had made love, and she was in a good place. She was very satisfied, and she luxuriated in the feeling.

At times, she could hardly believe the degree of control over her powers that the Localized Ionic Sensory Activator had brought to her. But more amazing to her than the thought of not killing a person with her touch was the thought of physical intimacy. She'd never known it before Charles Gunn, and though there had been two other boyfriends since that first encounter with him, he was the one that her mind always went back to.

She was a thief, through and through. That's how she came to be the owner of the casino, actually. And though she no longer needed to steal, she had never been able to give up her old life. Because living a normal life as a respectable business-woman, demon casino or no, was boring.

Charles was exactly the wrong kind of guy for her.

A hero.

A good guy.

Go figure.

She shook her head bemusedly. And yet... and yet... she was in a good place, and she was satisfied. She felt as though a warm glow were filling her up with light. She felt peace.

She had not much more time to enjoy the feeling, however, as a sudden knock at the door interrupted her musing.

She took her time about answering it, still too relaxed, and still feeling too good to move too quickly. At length, and after several gratuitous stretches, she put on a silk robe, tied the sash, and answered the door.

A guard stood waiting for her. "Ma'am," he said, "There's a problem."

As he spoke, her good mood began to evaporate. A minute later, Gunn awoke to Gwen's irate shout of, "There's a WHAT in the alley?"

-----------------------

Fred stood in the Hyperion lobby alone. The hotel was silent, and a thick layer of dust had settled over everything. She was breathing heavily at first, and nearly panicked, but after a few moments in the solemn atmosphere of that place, her pulse slowed, and she began to breath normally.

The echoes of her breathing were almost deafening in that silent place. That silent place that had once been full of life and love: a place full of memories, both good and ill.

The lobby.

The office.

The settee.

The desk.

The stairs.

The door that led into the other parts of the hotel.

She remembered. She remembered this place. It was a good place. It was home.

After half an hour, Wesley arrived. He saw her standing silently in the lobby, looking about at the place they all used to work and live and love.

His expression softened like it hadn't in years.

For a moment, he was that same Wesley who arrived at Angel Investigations so long ago, the innocent 'Rogue Demon Hunter.'

He looked at Fred with great tenderness, and his chest seemed to expand with his love for her.

And then the weight of the intervening years settled back over him.

She turned around and looked the man she loved.

He walked to her and took her hand, and together they gazed upon the Hyperion.

END CHAPTER 2

----------------------------

Author's notes:

Feedback is most definitely welcome – particularly constructive criticism. Nothing makes me happier than to know what specifically you (the reader) liked, what you didn't like, and (most importantly) why.


	4. To Strive With Gods

Angel's eyes flashed with a strange light, and he gasped, the sudden intake of unneeded breath filling his lungs just as his soul, newly restored, filled his devil-fettered body. He did not know where he was. He did not know where he was, but someone was standing before him, holding a sword. After a moment, it occurred to him that he was holding another. He recognized the person before him. He'd recognize her anywhere.

"Buffy?" he asked. "What's going on?"

The expression on her face seemed strange to him – out of place. He couldn't remember anything since... That Night. Something had happened to him. He remembered staggering out into the night, but after that, nothing.

"Where are we? I... I don't remember."

Buffy looked wary at first, but after a moment, the wariness faded, and she lowered her sword. "Angel?" she asked.

He smelled blood. He looked at her. "You're hurt," he said." She looked down at her wound, and then he embraced her tightly. "Oh, Buffy... God. I feel like I haven't seen you in months.

She closed her eyes and let out a deep sigh, and hugged him back.

He didn't recognize the room he was in. There was something cold behind him. Something he did not want to turn around to see.

She looked at it, and as she saw it, the light in her eyes died a little. Silent tears flowed down her perfect cheeks. He wanted to reach out and wipe them away.

"What's happening?" Angel asked.

Buffy looked him in the eyes. "Shh," she whispered, "Don't worry about it."

Warmth. Her lips against his. Her arms around him. Love moved him, and he felt his heart expand. He loved her more in that moment than ever.

She looked deeply into his eyes. "I love you," she whispered.

"I love you," he whispered back.

She touched his lips with her fingertips. Her touch was fire.

"Close your eyes," she said, nodding reassuringly when he gave her a questioning look.

He did.

She pulled away, and he could sense her grief.

And then she shoved her sword into his chest.

Shock and pain immediately went to war with the terrible, dragging pain and bewilderment that had nothing to do with his wound. He looked down at the sword sticking out of his chest, and then met her eyes one last time. He reached out for her. "Buffy..."

And then coldness swept over him. Swept over him and swallowed him. It swallowed him, and he was falling. Falling.

Falling into Hell.

----------------------

A Kingdom By The Sea  
An Angel Crossover Fanfic  
by P.H. Wise

Chapter 3: To Strive With Gods

Disclaimer: I don't own Angel. I don't own Highlander. I'm not making any money off of this. I also don't own 'The Becoming, Part II.'

----------------------

Angel started suddenly out of sleep, and for a moment, Hell still seemed to be all around him. It faded slowly, but for a moment, he thought he saw an afterimage of Her face.

Buffy's face.

Hell faded, and he shuddered. His room swam into view around him.

This was the third day in a row that he'd had this dream, and every time the same. It was a memory that he tried not to think about much. A hundred years of torment in Hell had a tendency to do that to a man. A hundred years in Hell, though in the real world, only months had passed.

There was something else. Something that tugged at the edge of his memory.

There was a flash of pain, and he clutched at his head. He knew this feeling. He had felt it once before – just a little over a month earlier. When he and Cordelia had kissed for the last time.

The vision washed over Angel, and his eyes went wide.

When it had passed, he knew what he had to do.

-----------------------

"You can't tell him, Joe," Methos said. He sat in a comfortable chair in Joe's apartment, with Joe sitting across from him.

Joe grimaced. "He's going to find out anyways. You know that Hamer was a friend of his."

"Hamer was a headhunter. He got what was coming to him. You know that saying about living by the sword?"

"Quoting the Bible, old man?"

Methos shrugged. "Wisdom isn't a localized phenomenon."

Joe wasn't sure what to say to that. He pulled out a pair of photographs. "Have you seen these?" he asked.

Methos looked at the pictures. One showed a very beautiful young woman with blue-streaked hair and skin with a ruggedly handsome man in some sort of back alley. She looked fearful. He looked grimly determined. In the next shot, the woman was gone, and the man stood facing another man that Methos recognized as Robert Hamer. Hamer had his sword out and ready.

"What of them?" Methos asked.

"The man in the photo is Wesley Wyndham Pryce," Joe says. "He works at a law firm called Wolfram and Hart."

Methos stiffened visibly at that.

"You know of it?"

Methos nodded. "They've had quite the reputation over the years."

"Well, according to Hamer's watcher, he's the one who killed Hamer. Shot him several times, and then hacked off his head with his own sword."

Methos frowned.

"Pryce isn't an immortal, Adam," Joe said.

"The girl?" Methos asked.

"Winifred Burkle. Also in the employ of Wolfram and Hart."

"Is she Immortal?"

Joe shrugged. "She's not on record. If she is, she's a newborn."

"Pryce obviously knows about us," Methos said.

Joe nodded. "He's a former Watcher."

Methos raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"He was with the English division." At Methos's blank look, he went on, "They're almost a separate entity these days, call themselves 'The Council of Watchers,' or 'The Council' for short. Rumour has it they take a somewhat broader view of our mandate as watchers, and keep an eye on various cults and psychos on the behalf of the British government."

"Why haven't I heard of them?" Methos asked.

"When was the last time you took your attention away from hiding your own existence under the guise of 'researching the Methos myth?'"

"Point taken."

Methos fell silent. Joe watched him for a moment.

"Still think we shouldn't tell MacLeod?" Joe asked.

"Now more than ever," Methos replied.

"What are you going to do?"

Methos rose from his chair and smiled disarmingly. "I'm going to take a little look around the City of Angels."

"Watch your back, old man," Joe said.

"Don't I always?"

-----------------------

Wesley and Winifred walked arm in arm down the sunny street, she leaning ever so slightly against him as they went. Fred was glad of the contact. It made her feel more human. It was morning, and the post-dawn sun beamed down warmly upon them. Birds sang on the power lines, and the noise of traffic filled the air.

"Are you sure you're ready for this?" Wesley asked.

Fred nodded. She was ready. "I have to go back to work some time," she said.

They had eaten a full breakfast at a diner some two blocks away. He'd had porridge and tea. She'd had pancakes with coffee. She could still faintly taste the maple syrup. She smiled brightly. She had not felt that buzzing pressure on her mind since that night at the casino, and although she'd asked what it had been, Wesley had only replied that he would tell her all about it later.

But he hadn't told her yet.

Still, it was a beautiful morning. It was warm, she wasn't hungry, and she was walking by the side of her love. It was a good morning.

She could see the Wolfram and Hart tower in the distance.

----------------------

'WELCOME BACK!' the sign read, and as she walked into the lobby, the jubilant voices of Lorne, Charles, Harmony, and about a dozen other coworkers rang out in greeting, "WELCOME BACK, FRED!" they called.

"'bout time you came back here, Fred," Spike said, beaming a grin of his own. Angel stood off to the side, smiling the first genuine smile Fred had seen on his face in a long time. At Fred's side, Wesley smiled, and many lines of care were banished forever.

She felt warm, but this time it had nothing to do with the temperature. She smiled winsomely, and she was happy.

"I don't know what to say, y'all!" she said.

"Well I sure do," Lorne said. "Let's PARTY!"

Everyone cheered, and the party began.

It lasted three hours, from nine until noon, and though it took up time normally devoted to the workday, nobody much cared. For the Fang Gang, their friend had been dead, and was alive again, and this was their chance to celebrate. For the others, it was a chance to gain favour in the eyes of their bosses, but also an opportunity for paid break time. For Harmony, it was just an excuse to party.

It was two hours into it that Fred suddenly felt that strange buzzing pressure. A moment later, Hamilton, the liason to the Senior Partners, walked into the room, impeccably dressed as always, and also as always, his every polite movement suggestive of carefully controlled violence.

Angel smoothly stepped forward. "Hamilton. I've been meaning to discuss a few things with you..." Angel trailed off.

Hamilton ignored him, moving smoothly past the ensouled vampire to stand directly in front of Fred. He gave her a considering look. "Miss Burkle," he said, "How lovely to see you again. We were beginning to wonder if you really were gone for good. That would have been truly unfortunate."

"I can't tell you how it feels to know that Hell is concerned for the well-being of little old me."

Wesley stepped forward protectively, putting an arm around Fred. She felt reassured by his presence.

Hamilton smiled. "The Senior Partners were deeply concerned when they learned what had happened to you. I'm glad to see that you've gotten a handle on the... Illyria situation."

Fred felt something twist inside her, and there was a strange pressure against her awareness. For a moment, she could hear Illyria's thoughts, raging there in the back of her mind. 'Has he been planning this the whole time? Him and the Wolf, Ram, and Hart? I will not be caged. I WILL NOT! I shall take back my shell, and then I shall tear this servant of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart limb from limb for his impertinence! I shall make a trophy of his spine, and feast upon his heart's blood!' Illyria's thoughts became muted, and she could no longer make them out. They became like the buzzing of a swarm of bees, and then faded away completely.

Fred shuddered.

"Fred? Are you all right?" Wes asked.

Fred nodded absently. "I'm fine," she said distantly.

Wesley frowned, and looked at Hamilton suspiciously.

"Good day, Miss Burkle," Hamilton said pleasantly. He moved off towards Angel, and was soon drawn into conversation with the vampire.

But from time to time for the next hour or so that the party lasted, Fred felt as though she were being watched, and when she looked up, Hamilton's eyes were upon her, glittering blackly.

-------------------------

It was several hours later that Angel called the Fang Gang (plus Spike) for a meeting in his office.

"We have a problem, people," he said as the last of them, Lorne, shut the door and moved to take a seat.

"Spike?" Gunn asked.

"Hey!" said Spike, playing at being offended.

"Another problem," Angel said.

The others smiled.

"Ever since Cordelia went into that coma, we've been flying blind. No guidance. No visions. No nothing. We've been at the mercy of the Senior Partners, stuck in the gullet of this beast called Wolfram and Hart, and all we've done so far is get digested."

"Surely we've managed to do at least some good..." Wesley began.

Angel shook his head, and Wesley trailed off. "We've made compromises. We've allowed little things to slip. We've fallen off the path." He held up a small glass ball. "Involvere," he said. It pulsed brightly, and a wave of energy spread out across the room. "A glamour," he said, in response to the questioning looks of his friends. "So far as anyone outside this room trying to listen in is concerned, I'm just giving you a generic pep-talk."

"Aren't you?" Spike said.

Angel glared, and Spike looked particularly satisfied.

"It started a little over a month ago. With a kiss."

Wes looked truly surprised. "Cordelia?" he asked.

Angel nodded. "Gave me her visions. I'd thought it was a one-shot deal. Just to put me on the path, show me where the real powers were. I thought wrong. I had another vision last night."

"So fill us in," Gunn said. "What did you see?"

"I saw us. Me, Spike, Gunn, and Illyria. In an alleyway. Fighting for our lives against a horde of demons. And a dragon."

"And Illyria?" Fred asked.

Angel nodded. "Wesley was dead. Lorne was gone – I don't know if he was dead or not. You were dead. Illyria was working with us. Gunn," he looked at Gunn, "You were dying. Covered in blood. It was raining. We were all dying. There were too many. And then I saw a symbol. A circle with black thorns."

He met each of their gazes in turn. "The Circle of the Black Thorn is the hand of the Senior Partners on the earth. The Senior Partners aren't on this plane of existence. The Circle is. They're the ones that make sure that the well oiled machine that is the Apocalypse keeps running smoothly."

The others stared at him in shock.

"I've been trying to gain access to the Circle ever since..." he glanced at Fred. "You died. I thought I would use that. I couldn't let that be just another random horrible thing in a random, horrible world. I tried to make them think I was responsible. Join them. And then, once I knew who they were, I would kill them all. When you came back, as happy as I am to have you back, it derailed those plans."

Fred swallowed heavily, and nodded. Wesley looked more than a little bit offended. Lorne, Spike, and Gunn only nodded.

"What do you think the Powers were trying to tell you with this vision?" Gunn asked.

"I think they were showing me a possible future. I think something goes wrong, and we all die. We have to prevent that from happening."

"So what do we do?" Lorne said. "I don't know about you, Angel-cakes, but I'm not much of a fighter. I'm on your team, but if it comes down to it, I don't know how much good I'll be against a horde of angry demons."

Angel smiled faintly. "I know."

"Well, what do we do?" Lorne asked again.

"What we always do," Angel said. "We save the day."

Spike grinned. "Got anything specific in mind?"

Angel returned his grin. "As it happens, I do."

---------------------

As she left the meeting to return to her lab, Fred's whole body trembled with barely contained excitement mixed with fear. If Angel's plan worked, it would change everything. If it failed... if it failed, well, they'd all be dead, so they wouldn't care what else happened. Or at least, she hoped they wouldn't care.

She could feel that Illyria within her was also pleased, even as she was shocked by the sheer audacity of the plan.

Fred walked into her lab, and found it curiously deserted.

She frowned.

Marcus Hamilton was waiting for her.

"Miss Burkle," he said.

She jumped in surprise, let out a little scream, and whirled to face him. "Oh! Hamilton! I didn't see you!"

"That's because I didn't want you to," he said patiently.

"Oh," she said, her mannerisms like nothing so much as a fluttering bird, "I suppose that would make sense. You know, not being seen when you make an effort to stay out of sight..."

"I'm assuming that Mr. Wyndham Pryce has explained things to you," he said.

She blinked.

"I'm proposing a truce between us. I am the Liason to the Senior Partners – you work for them in your own way. There's no reason for me to claim your head, and no reason for you to make a pathetic attempt to claim mine."

Fred was confused, and it showed. What in the world was he talking about?

Hamilton studied her face for a few moments, and then smiled. "Ah, I see. So he HASN'T told you. Very interesting. And as much as I'd love to fill you in on all the sordid details of your new existence..." He reached out and touched her cheek. "Business before pleasure. Good day, Miss Burkle."

He turned and walked away, leaving Fred standing, dumbfounded, in the middle of her deserted lab.

--------------------

And a few miles away, at the Los Angeles International Airport, Methos stepped off the plane that had carried him from Seacouver. He turned up the collar of his trench coat, and went to pick up his luggage.

Not for the first time, he wondered why in the world he had chosen to come here.

It was stupid.

He was putting himself in danger.

And yet... he knew that if Mac found out about the death of Robert Hamer at the hands of a Watcher, former or not, he'd be down here in a second to fight for truth, justice, and various other important sounding nouns. And would inevitably get himself killed.

MacLeod was a friend, and he didn't have many of those. Still, that wouldn't have mattered twenty years ago. Although he did not like to think about such things, it occurred to him that perhaps he had been changed by MacLeod's friendship than even he suspected.

So here he was.

After collecting his luggage, he walked out of the air-conditioned airport, and into the blazing heat of a summer day in Los Angeles.

Methos cursed, and took off his overcoat.

Damned Southern California weather.

END CHAPTER 3

-------------

Author's notes:

Feedback is most definitely welcome – particularly constructive criticism. Nothing makes me happier than to know what specifically you (the reader) liked, what you didn't like, and (most importantly) why.


	5. Unfinished Business

"All right people," Angel said. "Pack everything you can carry. We're getting out of here." They were gathered in his office once more – Lorne, Gunn, Fred, Wesley, and Spike. Champions all.

Lorne grimaced. "Why do I get the feeling this isn't gonna end well?" he said.

"Probably because it's not," said Wesley. "If all goes well, the very best we can hope for is to get out of this alive."

"And if all goes badly?" Lorne asked.

"Then it'll be better if we DON'T get out of this alive."

Fred shook her head faintly. "When this is over, Wesley, we need to talk."

Wes nodded.

"I still don't see why I can't be the one to betray you," Spike said.

"People!" Angel said. He glanced at his wrist, where he would have been wearing a watch if he'd bothered to put one on. "Kinda on a timetable here?"

"Just tell me one thing, Angelwings," Lorne said, "If this is so unlikely to end well, why are we doing this? You know, the reasons we came here still apply. We can do a lot of good with the resources of this place."

Angel smiled sadly. "Because it's not about us. Any of us. It's about them. It always has been. The wolf. The ram. The hart. The ones we've been fighting against forever."

Lorne understood that much, at least. The order of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart had caused untold harm to his own world of Pylea as well. After a moment, he spoke again. "Do you seriously think we can beat them?"

Angel shrugged. "Maybe they're not there to be beat. Maybe they're there to be fought. Maybe fighting them is what makes human beings so remarkably strong."

Lorne nodded his agreement.

That was it, then. The fang gang's wills were set, and only death would break them.

Angel, Fred, Spike, Lorne, Gunn, and Wesley turned and went to work.

-----------------------

A Kingdom By The Sea  
An Angel Crossover Fanfic  
by P.H. Wise

Chapter 4: Unfinished Business

Disclaimer: I don't own Angel. I don't own Highlander. I'm not making any money off of this.

-----------------------

"Going somewhere, Angel?" Hamilton asked as he stepped into Angel's office. The walls were bare. The swords had been taken down, and several boxes had been filled with miscellaneous items, a mug with '#1 Boss' written on it displayed prominently.

"Just cleaning up the place," said Angel. "I thought it was getting cluttered."

Hamilton glanced about. "Now, if I didn't know better, I'd think you were backing out of the contract you signed when you took over management of this branch of our fine company."

"Appearances can be deceiving, Hamilton," Angel replied flippantly. "I'm sure you know all about that."

Hamilton studied Angel very closely. "... Yes. Yes they can. I warn you, Angel. Our relationship has been mutually beneficial thus far, but if you are considering reneging on our contract, there will be dire consequences."

"Got any other helpful business tips?" Angel asked.

Hamilton shook his head. "No, that's it."

"Then get out of my office."

Hamilton hesitated a moment, and then turned and left.

Angel smiled faintly. One crisis averted – for now, at least. It was time to act.

-----------------------

It was evening when the Immortal called Methos arrived at the Hilton where he had made reservations. Sure, he usually preferred something more down to earth, but once in a while, even very old men (with young graduate student looks) felt the need for a little luxury.

He thought of it as a compensation for having come here in the first place

"Ah yes," the clerk at the check-in desk said, unmoved by the splendour of the lobby that he had worked in for nearly fifteen years. "Mr. Pierson." He produced Methos's room key and slid it easily into his hotel information packet. "If you like, Mr. Stevenson will show you up to your room. Will there be anything else?"

Methos nodded. "I'd like a wakeup call at six A.M."

"Very good, sir," said the clerk.

Methos turned towards the bellhop, Mr. Stevenson, who had already collected his bag. "If you'll follow me, Sir," the bellhop said.

Methos followed. They passed quickly through the glittering lobby and into a long hallway. Through the hallway they went, and into the elevator, then up. Up, up, up, and with little sense of motion. On the fourteenth floor (there was no thirteenth floor), the elevator stopped, and the bellhop led him in short order to his room – a comfortable, single bed affair, with a fully stocked minibar and fridge.

He tipped the bellhop, and then, alone, he went to the window. He went to the window, and he looked out, across the square at the brightly lit Wolfram and Hart building. It seemed to fill the whole of his vision, and if he were prone to such outbursts, he might have sworn that he felt a nearly palpable sense of evil wafting off the place.

How things had changed.

He could remember a time, a very long time ago, when Wolfram and Hart had been the Order of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart. He'd first encountered them a thousand years ago, in the company of a friend, seeking shelter from a storm...

FLASHBACK

The rain poured down in nearly blinding sheets, and neither Methos nor his companion could see more than a few feet in front of them. Methos grimaced. Maybe coming to England hadn't been such a good idea. ... Well, it wasn't as bad as that trip to Iceland with those blasted singing Irish monks. Have you ever heard a drunken Irish monk sing? It's not a pretty sound by any means.

Still, even if it wasn't as bad as THAT, he was still tired, cold, and hungry.

"I think I see a light ahead," his companion said.

Methos peered into the rain-haze. He could see it as well. It was very faint, but it was there. And where there was light, as a general rule, there was shelter. Heartened by his friend's pronouncement, he gathered his strength, and staggered on.

After several minutes clambering up a slick, muddy incline, he finally reached a large wooden door. They were before a monastery, Methos realized, though he didn't recognize the symbols carved around the door. He exchanged glances with his friend, and then seized the great, iron knocker, and pounded it against the door.

Three dull thuds, and then silence.

They waited.

They waited for nearly ten minutes. Methos was about to knock again, when he suddenly felt the presence of another Immortal. He tensed, but then, glancing up at the monastery doors, he told himself that it was Holy Ground, and he was in no danger.

A moment later, the door swung open with many a loud creak, and a hooded monk stood upon the threshold.

"Please, sir," said Methos's companion, "We are cold, tired, and hungry. Might we find lodging here to wait out the storm?"

The monk seemed to consider this for a moment, and then nodded. "Come in," he said, and stepped aside, allowing the two to enter. "I am Brother Marcus. And you are?"

"Connor," Methos said. It would be the last time he would ever use that particular pseudonym.

"Drogyn," said his friend. Drogyn cast off his wet cloak, and Brother Marcus hung it by the door for him.

Methos removed his own cloak and set it to hang next to Drogyn's.

The man who would come to be known in later years as Marcus Hamilton smiled warmly, though it never reached his eyes. "I will show you to the guest quarters."

They followed him. Followed him into the heart of the monastery of the Order of the Wolf, Ram, and Hart.

And outside the monastery, the rain came down in torrents.

END FLASHBACK

Methos shook his head. The memories of Immortals tended to gather like cobwebs, especially after a life as long as his. Although he and Drogyn had only stayed in that place long enough to wait out the storm, he did not like to think about what they had found there.

He stared across the square at the offices of Wolfram and Hart. He could sense something. It was very faint, but it was coming from that building. It was something like the presence of another Immortal, but darker. There was a sense of writhing, and a faint pressure, and a feeling like he was being stalked. Hunted by a predator.

He'd only felt this once before – in Joe's Blue's club, not that long ago, when that wave of mysterious blue light had passed over the world.

Staring out across the square, he realized that whatever had caused that feeling then was there, in that building.

Methos could not suppress a shudder.

------------------------

"We ready?" Angel asked.

Wesley nodded. "I think we're about as well prepared as one could hope to be before calling down the wrath of hell onto his own head."

He turned to Gunn. "Is the bomb in place?"

Gunn nodded. "Ready and waiting," he said. "If you time it right, it should kill every single one of them. If that place you saw in your vision really was the right location."

"And our little problem downstairs?" he asked.

"I was thinking an all-expense paid trip to Qortoth," Fred said, looking remarkably pleased.

"I thought portals didn't go to Qortoth?"

"Normally, they don't. But it's not terribly difficult to modify the trans-dimensional resonance of the portal enough to forge a link to a new plane."

"And by 'not terribly difficult," Lorne said, "She really means slightly less difficult than carrying the whole world on your shoulders while running a marathon through the slime-pits of Gra'lorth. And those are some unpleasant slime-pits, let me tell you."

The others looked at him blankly.

"It's REALLY REALLY HARD," he said.

The others nodded.

"The hotel?" Angel asked.

"I put a call in to the Furies," said Lorne. "The protective barrier should be online and ready to go the moment we arrive."

"Great," said Angel. "How are we for cash?"

Gunn grinned, and produced a briefcase. "Two hundred thousand dollars here, the rest in your Swiss bank accounts. We're good to go."

Angel nodded. "Good. Spike."

Spike perked up. "Right. All the preparations are made. And just for the record, I'm not wearing any amulets. No bracelets, broaches, beads, pendants, pins, or rings."

Angel nodded. "Good to know. But I don't think any of that will be necessary." He looked over at his people. "All right, people. Let's move out."

The Fang Gang turned as one, and left Angel's office behind for the last time.

------------------------

In a dark, forgotten chamber lying far beneath the surface of the earth, ancient Things of untold power gathered to take council together. The head of the Fell Brethren. The Archduke. Senator Brucker. Vail. And still others - each of them here, each of them responsible for the continuation of the Apocalypse.

As one, they chanted: "All is bound by the circle and its thorns. Invisible, inviolate, we, the seeds of the storm, at the center of the world's woe, now convene." And as they spoke, the shadows of the room grew darker, and a sense of menace grew around them.

"Angelus has proved unworthy of us," the Archduke Sebassis said, after a brief silence.

"Most unfortunate," said the leader of the Fell Brethren.

"For him," Vail said. "But that's not why you called this meeting, is it, Archduke?"

The Archduke gave Vail a faintly disgusted look. "No. It is not." The others gave the Archduke their undivided attention. He went on. "We're here to discuss the Illyria situation."

A noise like a sigh passed through those present at the mention of the Old One. The Archduke continued speaking. "Illyria abides. Its host is Immortal, yet it remains undiminished. It is only a matter of time before it resumes control of its body. The question, my friends, is what we intend to do about it."

"Well," said Angel, "I've got a suggestion."

The others turned to face the vampire, with varying expressions of shock and outrage on their faces. How dare he desecrate this sacred place with his unconsecrated presence! "Angelus!" Sebassis roared, rising to his feet.

"No, don't get up," Angel said. "I'll only be a moment."

Vail flung out his hand, and a fireball flew towards the ensouled vampire. It passed right through his form with nary a flicker, and then splashed violently against the far wall.

The members of the circle all stared in shock. "A projection?" Sebassis asked. "Angelus, your life is forfeit. You will die for this."

"Or," said Angel, "You could listen to my suggestion."

"That being?" Brucker asked.

"That you all die. Now." Angel produced a small switch from his pocket.

"You will pay for this outrage, Angelus," Sebassis sneered.

Angel's eyes narrowed. "The name is Angel," he said, and pressed the switch.

The meeting place of the Circle of the Black Thorn erupted in a massive, magically charged fireball. They never even had a chance. Those that weren't vaporised in the initial blast were killed when their sanctum collapsed over them. In an instant, every single member of the Circle was dead.

But the Senior Partners were not so blind as to have not seen who was responsible. In a wrath, they rose up and struck a blow against the mortal world. The contingency that they had prepared in the event of Angel's betrayal was activated. And in the depths of the Wolfram and Hart building, something dark drew its first breath in over a thousand years.

Sniffing the air experimentally, it rose up upon its haunches, and sent forth tendrils of thought. Yes, good. This place was old, and there had been much suffering here. It could sense its prey, somewhere above, and moving away rapidly. No matter. It had time yet before the compulsion would grow too powerful to resist. Time to raise its army.

It grinned, barring sharp, needle like teeth over desiccated, leathery flesh. Its dried, rubbery intestine-tendrils flailed about experimentally, snaking out from the creature's open gut. Yes, it was time.

And then it stepped into the trap that Wesley and Fred had set for it. The spell-triggers went off, and the very air was split asunder. A jagged crack ran through the fabric of conventional space-time, widening almost instantly into a full-blown blood red portal.

It barely had time to realize the nature of its predicament before it was gone.

The portal didn't stop there. The secondary enchantment Wesley had placed upon Fred's trans-planar portal generator kicked in, and the portal began to exert force upon the building around it. First barely even noticeable, it grew stronger by the moment.

A moment later, the Wolfram and Hart building was rocked by a dozen explosions, each one tied specifically to destroy a vital building support. There was a terrible roar, and the shrieking of tortured metal, and the whole building began to collapse. And with the open portal to Qortoth right beneath it, the building – all of it – was drawn in.

And the Senior Partners raged.

-------------------------------

Methos awoke to the sound of explosions, far too close by for comfort. He fell out of bed, and covered his head. It was only when the rumbling began that he realized that he himself was not in any danger. He rose to his feet and looked out the window of his room just in time to see the Wolfram and Hart building collapsing inwards on itself. Imploding.

His jaw dropped open in shock. Even he had not seen something like THIS before. No mere demolition job was this – the building was compressing itself down to a single point, and the terrified screams of those few people who were in the square rang loudly in the warm summer night.

The building continued its long death, compressing down, drawn ever down, and then it was gone, and a glittering blood red hole floated in the crater that was left in the building's place. After a moment, the blood red hole spiraled shut with a peal of thunder.

The thing he had sensed was near. It was outside the Hilton. It was moving. He dressed himself in a panic, and then rushed down to meet it. It was stupid. It was a stupid, stupid thing to do. But even as he knew it was deadly, he was drawn to it. Almost compelled to seek it. He didn't understand, and he didn't like it one bit, but five minutes later, Methos was in his car, pursuing that peculiar sense of writhing.

----------------------------

The Senior Partners' response was both deadly and swift. Rites were performed. Portals were opened. But even they had no dominion over the Qortoth. Even they could not call back what had been sent there. But such that they could have done, was done. In a few hours, Angel and his group would be the most wanted fugitives of both the human and demon worlds.

Dark warriors emerged from the portals, and demons of every kind. They converged upon the Hyperion Hotel. A barrier shield had sprung up around the former site of Angel Investigations shortly after their departure from Wolfram and Hart. They would be trapped within. And once trapped, it would only be a matter of time.

Great magics were brought into play. Many favours were called in, and soon, some of the most powerful mystics this side of evil were at work dispelling the shield.

It took them most of the night.

Finally, when the shield collapsed, and the forces of darkness poured into the Hyperion, they found it utterly abandoned. There was no sign of their quarry.

The Senior Partners raged, and for the first time since the days of the Old Ones, they felt impotent.

----------------------------

Nestled somewhat uncomfortably in Angel's old 1967 Plymouth Belvedere GTX Convertible, the Fang Gang made good time out of Los Angeles. It was early morning, and Highway 5 was clear. They went north. They needed to get out of the Los Angeles area, and they needed to get out of it now. They were at the foot of the Grapevine when the news bulletin hit. Charles Gunn, Winifred Burkle, and Wesley Wyndham Pryce were wanted in connection with the terrorist attack on the Wolfram and Hart building in Los Angeles. They were considered armed and extremely dangerous. A basic description was given of each.

"Well, that ain't good," Fred said from where she sat in the back seat, looking somewhat panicked.

"Young black male?" Gunn asked incredulously. He looked at his reflection in the rear view mirror. "Fred, tell me, do I look like every other black man in the world to you?"

Fred rolled her eyes. "Charles," she said, sounding both exasperated and very fond of him.

"I'm just sayin'."

Spike spoke up. "I expect the whole demon world will be looking for us soon, if they aren't already. Probably send the Order of Taraka." He glanced at Angel. "Did I ever tell you about the time I sent them after Buffy?"

Angel glared. "Shut up, Spike."

"She looked amazingly hot fighting them off," Spike said.

"Shut up, Spike."

"You're just jealous that you never had the kind of connections to pull something like that off."

"Shut up, Spike."

Spike looked particularly smug.

And so it went, as the Fang Gang sped north, across the Grapevine, and up I5 through the central valley, through Sacramento, and beyond. By day, Wes, Gunn, Lorne, and Fred took turns driving while Angel and Spike hid beneath the blankets. By night, the two ensouled vampires traded off driving shifts.

Back in the Los Angeles area, both police and the feds were out in force as a manhunt on a massive scale began. But thanks to Wesley's cloaking spell, no sign of the Fang Gang was ever found.

And Methos? Methos made an effort to pursue that sense of writhing until he reached the base of the grapevine. It was then that his common sense reasserted itself. He shook his head, and took the nearest off-ramp.

It had been a mistake coming here. He would look around for a few days, but he suspected that whatever was going to happen, had happened.

He very much looked forward to returning to Seacouver, and leaving this blasted Southern California weather behind him.

END CHAPTER 4

-----------------

Author's notes:

Well, I finally managed to get everyone out of LA. Except for poor Methos, that is. And all it took was the complete destruction of the Los Angeles branch of Wolfram and Hart. I'm not yet sure whether or not I'm going to kill off any of the Fang Gang over this. But there will be consequences for their victory, and dire ones at that.

Feedback is most definitely welcome – particularly constructive criticism. Nothing makes me happier than to know what specifically you (the reader) liked, what you didn't like, and (most importantly) why.


	6. Of Journeys and Foolish Mistakes

"You've got a visitor," the guard said in response to his questioning glance.

Lindsey McDonald smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. A visitor, huh? Great. Still, at least it was a welcome reprieve from the endless drudgery of prison life. What's worse, he couldn't just break out. Ok, well, he COULD, but he wouldn't get very far. Not with Angel, with all the resources of Wolfram and Hart at his fingertips, bound and determined to keep him behind bars. Sure, there weren't REALLY any charges against him. But when had that stopped Wolfram and Hart in the past? No, he was well and truly caught, and he knew it.

He followed the guard to the interrogation room. This wasn't normal. He found himself wondering who it was that had come for him. Angel, perhaps? Or one of his stooges? When he reached the interrogation room, the guard removed his shackles, and then left.

OK, definitely not a normal visitor.

Whoever it was wasn't here yet, though. He sat down and waited.

A few minutes later, the sound of someone approaching in high heels echoed down the corridor outside the room. The door opened, and a well-dressed woman walked in. A very familiar woman.

"Lilah Morgan," he said bemusedly, "Heard you bought it. Standard in perpetuity clause is a bitch, isn't it? But then, so are you."

"Hello Lindsey," she said, smiling unpleasantly.

He leaned back in his chair, and put his feet up on the table. "How the mighty have fallen," he said.

"I could say the same about you."

"Yeah, but in my case, I can still look forward to tomorrow. You? The woman who was once a candidate for Junior Partner reduced to being an errand-girl for the higher ups?" He smiled viciously. "So how IS the hellfire treating you?"

"There's hellfire, and then there's hellfire. The punishment that waits for you will be far worse."

"Is that a fact?" he said.

She rolled her eyes. "Contrary to what you might think, I didn't come here to gloat over your failed ambition."

"Oh, but I was just starting to enjoy it."

Lilah was not amused.

Lindsey shrugged. "All right, what did you come here for?"

She opened her briefcase and produced a manila folder, which she set down on the table in front of him. "I'm here to give you a second chance."

A second chance? There's a laugh. "Angel's feeling magnanimous today?"

She shook her head, clearly amused. "Lindsey, Lindsey, Lindsey. You'll find that a few things have changed since Angel stuck you in here to rot. Angel's no longer in favour with the Senior Partners."

Lindsey raised an eyebrow. "What'd he do?"

"Oh, nothing much. He only killed the entire Circle of the Black Thorn, and then sent the entire Los Angeles branch of Wolfram and Hart on an all expense paid trip to the Qortoth."

Lindsey felt a dull roaring in his ears, and the room seemed to spin for a moment. His jaw dropped open. "WHAT?"

"The Senior Partners' sentiments exactly," Lilah said.

Lindsey collected himself, struggling to regain his composure. "And you want me to take care of our mutual friend for you?"

Lilah nodded. "We've got both the human and demon world looking for him. The order of Taraka's sent their three assassins. But the Senior Partners don't believe that any of that will be particularly effective. They want someone more... familiar with the case to handle this."

"They want me?" Lindsey shook his head. This was not what he had expected when he'd walked in here. "In exchange for...?" he asked.

"Membership in the new Circle. They're looking for candidates. Admittedly, we'll be a bit crippled in southern California for quite some time to come – especially considering that we can't simply magic the building back into place. We still can't figure out HOW Angel was able to access the Qortoth. It should have been impossible. But there will be a new Circle."

"The circle is eternal," Lindsey said.

"The circle is broken," Lilah said. "But it can be mended."

Lindsey looked at Lilah then as if she were his salvation. It was a momentary break in his composure. He thought about it, and then spoke. "One other condition."

Lilah arched an eyebrow. "Eve?" she asked.

"Eve."

Lilah smiled. "I think we can arrange that. Now if you'll just sign on the dotted line..."

Lindsey did not hesitate.

-----------------------

A Kingdom By The Sea  
An Angel Crossover Fanfic  
by P.H. Wise

Chapter 5: Of Journeys and Foolish Mistakes

Disclaimer: I don't own Angel. I don't own Highlander. I'm not making any money off of this.

-----------------------

It was near noon. The sun was shining brightly, and the air was thick with summer. In a rustic home in the San Rafael Mountains near Santa Barbara, a young man sat at the kitchen table, busily studying away. Sure, it was summer vacation, and sure, he had recently discovered that he had superpowers, but if he wanted to be prepared for his sophomore year at Stanford, he needed to get some work done before the school year started.

"Connor," his mother called as she walked into the kitchen, mail in hand, "There's a letter for you." She tossed it onto the table, and it slid easily in front of him.

He frowned. It was from Wolfram and Hart. From Angel. His father. Oh, he knew Angel was his father. His memories had been well and truly returned, though his new ones had not vanished. He remembered Qortoth. He remembered Holtz. He remembered Cordelia. He remembered Jasmine. He shut his book. "I'll be in my room," he said.

His mother nodded.

Once safe in the confines of his room, Connor was quick to open the letter.

It WAS from Angel. Last he'd heard, there'd been a terrorist attack on the Wolfram and Hart building, carried out by two American citizens and one British – Charles Gunn, Winifred Burkle, and Wesley Wyndham Pryce. Their pictures were shown fairly regularly on the news. He knew who they were. Fred. Gunn. Wesley. They had worked with his father. With Angel. Grimacing, he returned his attention to the letter.

'Connor,' it read,

_'If you are receiving this letter, then the Los Angeles branch of Wolfram and Hart is gone, as is their leadership. I have no illusions. I know that a final victory against Wolfram and Hart is impossible. Their Senior Partners are eternal. They're in the heart of every human being, making sure that man's inhumanity towards man stays on course. That is the real Apocalypse. Not your every day demon out to end the world, but human beings hating and killing other human beings. _

_Nothing in the world is the way it ought to be. It's harsh, and cruel. But that's why there's us. Champions. It doesn't matter where we come from, what we've done or suffered, or even if we make a difference. We live as though the world was what it should be, to show it what it can be._

_I don't expect to survive, but if I do, I'll try to contact you again. I don't know how much you remember, but know this at least: I love you very much, and I'm very proud of you. Stay on guard. They will probably come for you. Do what you can to protect your family. _

_Goodbye Connor_

_Angel.'_

Connor stared blankly at the letter for a long time. His old memories surged up. He wanted to call Angel a liar. He wanted to hate him. He wanted to kill him. He wanted... he was crying. Not for the first time since the return of his memories, he wondered what his life would have been like if he had not been taken into Qortoth. If he had been raised by Angel, and Cordelia, and Fred, and Gunn, and Wesley. Would he be on the run with them now, barely more than a toddler? What if he hadn't slept with Cordelia? What if he had chosen differently when his mother's spirit had come to him to prevent the sacrifice of that innocent girl? What if...?

He crumbled the letter into a ball. He could not stop crying.

Should have. Could have. Would have.

"Take care of yourself, Dad," he said to the empty room.

----------------------

Angel and company went north. And though it was long and dreary through the Central Valley on I-5 up to Sacramento, with endless farmland, and a faint odor of sulphur hanging in both the air and the ground water, it faded once they got up near Sacramento. The slaughterhouse right on the side of the highway an hour or two north of Bakersfield had been perhaps the most unpleasant sight (and smell) of the journey, with cows lined up in outdoor pens for as far as they cared to see, with isolated sprinklers showering a couple of them with water, and the slaughterhouse standing off in the distance.

North of Sacramento things improved. The smell vanished, and the countryside became more scenic. A few hours later, they left the central valley behind altogether, and passed into a beautiful woodland country. They crossed the Sacramento River twice, and then Fred pointed out the 'Redding city limit' sign.

Conversation had been sparse throughout the long drive. Twice, Fred had considered asking Wesley to explain Hamilton's words to her, and twice she had lost her nerve. And though she had not heard Illyria's thoughts again since her meeting with Hamilton, she felt the Old One's presence almost constantly, watching through her eyes, waiting for her chance.

Fred glanced down at the gas gauge. It was on the 'E.' She glanced over at Wesley, who was sitting next to her, with Charles on his right in the true passenger's seat. "I'm gonna pull off at this next exit for some gas," she said.

Wesley nodded absently, staring off intently towards the horizon.

Fred got off I-5 on Churn Creek Rd, and stopped at the Arco station on the right hand side of the overpass. She opened the door, and stepped out of the car.

It felt like she had opened the door to an oven. She began to sweat immediately.

Charles and Wesley got out of the car, then. "Damn," Charles said, shaking his head incredulously. "I thought it was supposed to get colder when you got further north."

"You'd think so, wouldn't cha," Fred replied, and went in to pay in cash for a full tank of gasoline. It was a relief to walk through the doors of the gas station – they had air conditioning.

Charles followed her into the station and retrieved the key for the restroom before leaving her field of vision.

The attendant stared at her. For a moment, Fred wondered what he found so strange about her appearance. Then the sense of Illyria's presence came over her, and she remembered. That is, of course, assuming he didn't simply recognize her from the description given of her on the news, though that didn't take into account the changes Illyria had brought to her appearance.

She paid for the gas, and went outside, shaking her head incredulously. Two dollars and fifty cents per gallon.

The heat struck her almost like a physical blow.

As she walked back to Angel's car, she noticed a woman standing by the door to the women's bathroom. A middle-aged woman with a weathered face. Her skin was leathery and heavily lined, but her hair was not yet gray. She held a cigarette in one hand, drawing in leisurely puffs even as she held an infant to her breast with the other. Smoking a cigarette and nursing a baby.

Fred looked down at her own blue-tinged skin, and suddenly felt very sad. She began to fill the car with gas.

"Something wrong?" Wesley asked, and stepped next to Fred.

Fred turned away from the woman, and gave Wesley a searching glance. For a moment, she said nothing, and then she got in the car, where it was air conditioned.

Wesley did likewise.

"I always thought I'd probably end up like that woman some day," she said, and pointed to the woman standing by the door of the gas station, who was seemingly oblivious to the summer heat.

"Back before I came to LA. That's one of the reasons I left home. I love my parents to death, but I never wanted to be just another small town Texas girl, and to grow up to be just another small town Texas old woman."

Wesley met Fred's gaze. "You could never be just another anything," he said.

She smiled sadly. "Maybe it would have been better if I'd stayed home with my folks. Lived that ordinary life. I might be well on my way to becoming just another middle-aged small town Texas woman by now."

"No," Wesley said. "Not better. Easier, perhaps."

Her smile was no longer quite so sad. He kissed her tenderly.

Gunn came out of the gas station, then, and glanced at the woman by the door. As he got back into the car, he shook his head incredulously. "There's something seriously disturbing about that picture," he said, rather nonplused.

Wesley and Fred exchanged glances.

When the tank was full, they replaced the gasoline hose, sealed up the gas tank again, and drove on.

---------------------

Methos slept through his wakeup call, but with his reason for visiting Los Angeles now gone (as he saw it), there wasn't much point in getting up that early anyways. He got out of bed at noon, got himself a beer from the mini-bar (the bottle was woefully small), and sipped it as he watched the news.

Terrorists Attack Los Angeles! It was on all the major news stations. The Wolfram and Hart building had been completely destroyed, vaporized by a new kind of explosive. The site was being tested for radioactivity, but so far it didn't look like it was any kind of micronuke (which had been one of the popular early theories as to what had destroyed it). Three suspects were wanted in connection with the bombing. He'd seen the same report three times, so he paid it no mind this time.

After a few hours, he glanced at his plane tickets. He wasn't due to leave until tomorrow.

Damn.

He walked out into the square, into the blazing summer heat, and grimaced. Once again, he had worn his coat. He took it off, and found himself walking very close to the crater that had been left by the destruction of the Wolfram and Hart building.

It was very strange. The news had reported that all the buildings around the site had been evacuated. He had seen images of this. Supposedly, the entire area was under police quarantine. Yet here he stood at the edge of the crater, and there was not another human being, police, emergency worker, or otherwise anywhere within his field of vision. The building had not been evacuated. The hotel was still doing business. But no one was leaving the lobby. No one besides him, that is. The people around him had looked thoroughly shocked when he walked out into the square, but he had paid them no mind.

He saw the glint of sunlight off of something at the bottom of the crater. He was curious. He thought about it, estimating whether or not he could make it down there safely. After a moment, he determined that he could. The way down was smooth and firm – though the building was gone, the ground around it had not been very much disturbed, and even where there was damage, there was nothing in the way of jagged edges or other dangers. It was as if the material had not so much been damaged in an explosion as it had ceased to exist.

He went down into the crater.

There, at the very bottom, he found what looked like some sort of crystal-embedded sarcophagus. Why it didn't vanish with the rest of the building, he had no idea. But whatever it was, it wasn't something that he particularly felt like taking the risk of touching.

There was writing on it, but it was like nothing he had ever seen before.

He looked down. There was a crystal on the ground, and larger than any of the ones on the sarcophagus. He picked it up, and saw that it fit easily into a large empty socket on said sarcophagus, though he was not so foolish as to actually attempt to fit it in.

He shrugged, and pocketed the crystal. Perhaps it was valuable.

It was then that he sensed the presence of another Immortal.

He turned.

Marcus Hamilton stood on the edge of the crater, immaculately dressed, and looking down at Methos.

"Well, well, well," said Hamilton. "I never expected to see you again."

Methos smiled faintly, with neither his voice nor face betraying the panic that he felt. Damn. Damn. Damn. He should never have come into the crater. This was the second unnecessary risk that he had taken in as many days. What the hell was the matter with him? And yet... he had felt drawn to the crater. Drawn to the crystal. For a moment, he considered throwing it at Hamilton, just out of spite. "Brother Marcus," he said. "It's been a while. You've moved up in the world"

"And you haven't," Marcus said. "Still poking your nose where it doesn't belong?" He waggled a finger, as if Methos were a particularly troublesome child. "You should know better." He began to walk down the easy slope into the crater.

Methos backed away from Hamilton, up the other side of the crater. It was steeper, but still manageable. "I don't suppose you'd like to talk about this? Chat a bit? Catch up on old times?"

Hamilton cracked his neck, preparing for battle. "You know the rules. In the end, there can be only one."

Methos ran.

He scrabbled up the slope and out of the crater, and he ran.

And Hamilton was fast on his heels.

-------------------

Lindsey had been at the San Francisco branch of Wolfram and Hart for two hours – a minor field office, to be sure. In the grand scheme of things, San Francisco was not terribly important at the moment, though the seers said that it might become so in the future (which was why they had the field office there in the first place) – and already he was disgusted with the way they were handling the problem of Angel Investigations.

They were lazy here. They lacked the proper motivation. He supposed it was probably because there was little in the way of supernatural evil here to begin with. And so far as Champions, the biggest threat was those three sister witches who lived on top of the major intersection of the area's Leylines. But they were not much more than a minor nuisance at the moment, caught up as they were in a conflict with a minor demon lord (not a client) with delusions of grandeur who had taken to calling himself 'The Source.'

As in, 'The Source of All Evil.'

He had very nearly laughed out loud when he'd heard about that one.

But they had bigger fish to fry.

The San Francisco office was not particularly well equipped, but it was the best they had in California with the Los Angeles office gone.

Lindsey shook his head. "No, no, no, you're going about this all wrong," he said.

"Oh?" Lilah asked. "How would you do it differently?"

"Look, you keep looking for Angel, he keeps hiding. You step up your efforts to find him, he just finds a deeper hole to crawl into. You need to hit him where he's vulnerable. Strike at something that he'd give anything to protect. And you have to make sure he finds out about it. Announce it for all the world to hear, and he'll come right to you."

Lilah raised an eyebrow. "And you happen to have a suggestion in that regard?" she said.

Lindsey smiled sunnily. "That I do."

-------------------------

Methos ran for all he was worth, and quickly left behind the deserted square, and came out into the crowded Los Angeles city street.

Marcus pursued him, heedless of the mortals that were now between him and his target.

He glanced over his shoulder just in time to see Hamilton shove his hand THROUGH the chest of a hapless mortal that had gotten between him and his prey.

His eyes widened. "Oh shit," he said, or at least the nearest Latin equivalent, and felt as though he had just made the understatement of the year.

And he ran. He tried to double back through alleyways, to lose Hamilton by taking an unexpected route.

No luck.

His heart was pounding like a drum, and his head seemed to throb in time with it, and he ran on. And Hamilton pursued him, not even seeming to exert himself to keep pace.

He burst into the hotel parking lot, and knocked over a chauffer as he did so. He didn't stop to apologize.

The hapless chauffer had only just climbed back to his feet when Hamilton threw him violently out of his way.

The chauffer hit the concrete wall of the parking garage with a sickening crack, and slid down it. Blood began to pool around him.

Methos ran on. He reached his car. He frantically unlocked the door and jumped in. He started the engine, and the tires squealed as he tore backwards out of his parking spot.

Hamilton leaped, and landed on top of the car even as Methos threw the car into gear and began to accelerate away. The Oldest Immortal did not panic when Hamilton tore a hole in the roof of his rental car. Instead, he slammed on the brakes.

With little to find purchase on, Hamilton went flying off the car, rolled for a dozen yards, and then skidded to a stop.

Methos slammed his foot down on the accelerator, and the car surged forward.

Hamilton was only beginning to climb to his feet when Methos ran him over. The weight of the car crushed him back down to the concrete. The car shuddered as it passed over his body, and then Methos was driving away at top speed, and Hamilton climbed to his feet, dusted himself off, and clenched his fist until it bled.

-----------------------

That evening, Fred sat next to Wesley in the back seat of Angel's car, her head upon his shoulder. Lorne was asleep on the other side, and Gunn had only just dozed off up front. They were near the Oregon border (they'd passed the town of Weed about forty five minutes earlier), and Angel was driving.

She couldn't sleep.

Hamilton's words, spoken what seemed a lifetime ago in her lab at Wolfram and Hart, still rung in her ears. 'There's no reason for me to claim your head, and no reason for you to make a pathetic attempt to claim mine.'

She sat up and looked at Wes. "Wesley?" she said softly. "Are you awake?"

He shifted, and turned and looked at her. "Hmm?"

"You remember that feeling I told you about at Gwen's casino?"

"Mmmhmm," he said, barely awake.

"I meant to tell you – I felt it again at the welcome back party. And then Hamilton was there."

Wesley sat up, clearly alarmed at this bit of news. "Hamilton..."

"He met me later in my lab, and he said..."

Wesley sighed heavily. "I had hoped to have more time to ease you into this," he said.

"Ease me into what?"

"Perhaps it would help if you could tell me exactly what he told you."

Fred nodded. She told him. She told him everything that Hamilton had said.

Wesley let out a long, slow breath."I see."

"What did he mean, Wes?"

"Fred, when you came back..."

Angel and Spike were both listening now.

"It wasn't by accident. And it wasn't a miracle."

Fred listened patiently, waiting for him to continue.

"Fred, you survived being possessed by Illyria because you are Immortal."

Spike and Angel exchanged glances.

Fred couldn't help it. She laughed. Well, giggled is more like it. "Come again?" she said.

"There are some people who are born... different. They start out very much like the rest of us, growing up, sometimes growing old, and living more or less normal lives. And unless they die a violent death, they grow old and die just like the rest of us."

"But if they do die a violent death?"

"Then they wake up, sometimes minutes later, sometimes weeks, fully healed, and from that point on, never age another day. They are Immortal; they can not die unless..."

"Unless you cut off their head," Fred finished for him. She was no longer tired. She was no longer anything. Her emotions were in turmoil. She loved him, but he should not have kept this from her.

Wesley nodded.

"Then the man at the Casino..."

"Was an Immortal looking to collect your head."

"But why!" Her voice had a frantic note to it. "Why would he want to kill me?"

"Because in the end, there can be only one. When the Immortals have fought to the very last, the last of them will receive the Prize."

"The Prize?"

He shook his head. "No one knows. No one knows if it even exists. I'm sorry, Fred. I wanted to spare you this..."

She laughed bitterly, and Lorne awoke at the noise.

"What's all the hubub?" he asked sleepily, and fell silent when he saw the serious looks all around.

"So someone might try to cut off my head for a prize that might not actually exist? That's... great." The frantic note had not left her voice. "That's..."

Abruptly, she seized. Her jaw clenched, and she curled her hands into fists. Her entire demeanor changed, and her eyes seemed to freeze. No longer warm and inviting, but now cold, and harsh, like the very heart of winter.

"Fred?" Wesley asked, reaching out to shake her.

She caught his hand.

"Fredikins?" Lorne asked, clearly alarmed.

Illyria spoke, then, and her voice was like ice. "**What have you done to me**?"

Angel slammed on the brakes, and the car came to a screeching halt.

----------------------

That evening, far away from the troubles of Fred, Wesley, and Illyria, Connor sat up long into the night, considering what he should do. Something was going to happen, he was sure of it. But how to best safeguard his new family? Could he convince them to leave, perhaps? To take a few days and go to Vegas, maybe?

Yes, that seemed like it might be the best plan. He doubted they'd be in danger if he wasn't with them. He still had the crumpled up letter from Angel in his pocket, and its words yet burned in his thoughts.

He'd need weapons. He was pretty sure he knew where to get some, too. Maybe the return of those old memories would be good for something after all.

He was pretty sure that he wasn't a Champion yet, but if things kept going the way they were, he might be before too long. But that wasn't why he was preparing for battle even as his family slept peacefully. He was preparing for battle BECAUSE his family slept peacefully, and in order that they might continue to be able to sleep peacefully.

You did what you could to protect your family.

He'd learned that from his father.

END CHAPTER 5

--------------------

Feedback is most definitely welcome – particularly constructive criticism. Nothing makes me happier than to know what specifically you (the reader) liked, what you didn't like, and (most importantly) why.


	7. The Devil In Miss Burkle

"Midway through life's journey, I went astray from the true road and found myself alone in a dark wood."

- Dante, Inferno, Canto I

----------------------

A Kingdom By The Sea  
An Angel Crossover Fanfic  
by P.H. Wise

Chapter 6: The Devil In Miss Burkle

**(REVISED)**

Disclaimer: I don't own Angel. I don't own Highlander. I'm not making any money off of this.

----------------------

Illyria awoke as if from a long slumber, and though she could remember everything that had been experienced by the Burkle Persona, it seemed dull, muted. And it enraged her to think that it had achieved dominance over her for such an extended period of time. Dominance. That was the real kicker; that a lowly human shell could control HER. The shell's friends, and Wesley – her flesh warmed at the sight of him – watched her warily. When she spoke, her voice was cold. "What have you done to me?"

"Fred?" Lorne asked, though from his tone he knew it wasn't her.

"Illyria," Wesley said evenly, meeting the Old One's gaze. "How nice of you to join us."

Her eyes fixed on his, and for a moment, the others allowed themselves to believe that this might end well. But the car was too confined. It was a convertible, but the top was up, and she could feel the walls closing in around her. Her breathing quickened, and she seized Wesley by the throat, kicked the door open, and stepped out of the car.

The others were quick to follow her.

It was better out here, on the side of I-5, just short of the Oregon border. She could hear the Song of the Green all around her, and the scent of the forest filled the air.

"Put him down," Angel said commandingly.

Illyria met Angel's gaze, smirked slightly, and opened her hand. With a peal like thunder, a portal spiraled open by the side of the road, and, still holding Wesley by the throat, Illyria stepped through. The portal snapped shut behind her, and both she and Wesley were gone.

"Oh bollocks," said Spike.

The others could only nod their agreement.

-----------------

He was hurtling through a tunnel of blinding light, yet somehow he could still see. Pulses of greater and lesser light spiraled along the tunnel in gentle waves. He had no eyes. He had no hands. He had no body. Yet he was. There was another beside him: A terrible presence of blue light and power, and with it a terrible, loving presence of lightning and sharp, cutting intellect.

They emerged through the far side of Illyria's portal, and Wesley felt his body materialize around his awareness.

And there was shrimp.

Shrimp, everywhere, in every direction, as far as the eye could see – nothing but shrimp – an utterly featureless mass of wriggling, crawling shrimp, and lit by a seemingly sourceless light. They pressed up against him and all around him, smothering him for but a moment before Illyria waved her hand and dispersed a small pocket of shrimp to accommodate their presence.

Wesley coughed as she released his throat. "Shrimp?" he asked weakly.

Illyria glanced about. "Yes," she said. "That is this place."

Wesley's voice gained strength (and incredulity) as he spoke again. "You brought me to a dimension full of nothing but shrimp?"

Illyria nodded. "It seemed the thing to do."

That didn't sound very Illyria-like. Wesley looked at her. Her eyes were almost Fred-like, though not quite. "Couldn't you have brought us to a place more... conducive to human existence?"

She drew herself up proudly and opened her mouth to utter some excruciatingly arrogant statement, and then stopped, looked confused for a moment, and said, "Wesley? How did we get here?"

"Fred?"

Illyria jolted as if from sleep. "Remember your place, Shell," she snarled.

"That's a laugh!" Fred said, her voice following on the heels of Illyria's statement so closely that it almost seemed as though she had begun before Illyria had finished speaking, despite the fact that both voices came from the same mouth, "My place is in my body! YOUR place is in a handful of mummy-dust sealed up in a dried up old sarcophagus. Or did you forget?"

"How dare you!" said Illyria. "I will not be spoken to in such a manner by a mere human, indigestible soul or no!"

Wesley watched, fascinated, as the two beings bound up in Fred's body argued back and forth, their voices rising and falling, sometimes the one actually interrupting the other, even as they floated in the endless sea of shrimp. At length, and growing thoroughly concerned, he interrupted the two of them. "This is not the best place for an argument," he said, feeling a peculiar sense of surreality.

Illyria turned and met his gaze, and then, after listening to Fred's voice (silent to Wesley this time), sighed. "I tired very quickly of this place the last time I was here. I see that it has not improved in my absence."

She seized Wesley's arm, opened a portal, and threw him bodily into the event horizon, stepping in behind a moment later.

-------------------

Methos stepped off the plane and began the slow, shuffling climb down the stairway from the plane and onto the wet concrete runway. Slow and shuffling, yes, and only that because there were twenty some people in front of him also trying to climb down that same stairway, with perhaps forty more close behind. It was cold and muggy, and it was drizzling. The whole airport was wreathed in gray, and he felt supremely comfortable in his long overcoat. Yes, he decided, he definitely preferred the cooler climates of the world.

In a few minutes, he would retrieve his car, go home, unpack, and then drive on down to Joe's Blue's club and enjoy a pint of well-earned beer. He certainly wasn't going to think about Hamilton, and what it meant for the Game that there were super-powered Immortals running around who were capable of tearing people apart with their bare hands.

No, he wasn't going to think about that at all. Not even a little bit.

For a moment, he was in a dark hallway, his pulse pounding in his ears as he fled, and the wet, tearing sound of a mortal being torn limb from limb echoed loudly.

He blinked, and refocused his eyes. No, he wasn't going to think about Hamilton.

And suddenly, he felt the need for more than just a pint.

An hour later found him sitting on a bar stool nursing his first pint, bound and determined to drink until he couldn't see straight.

Joe hobbled in through the back door, and Methos cursed in Sumerian. It was quiet. None of the regulars (save Methos) were here yet. There would be plenty of activity tonight, but little happed in Joe's Blue's club before sundown.

"Find what you were looking for, old man?" Joe asked.

Methos took a long sip of beer, and said nothing. Joe sat down on the stool next to him. "I see," Joe said. When Methos remained silent still, Joe spoke again. "MacLeod knows."

He raised his glass in toast. "To MacLeod, then," he said, and drank.

"He was furious when he found out that you'd gone to LA. Said you were a damned fool, and were going to get yourself killed."

Methos laughed.

"Something funny?"

"I am a damned fool, Joe," he said.

Joe raised an eyebrow. "And getting yourself killed?"

"Still hoping to avoid that. What else did MacLeod say? Did he follow me to LA?"

"He was all packed and ready to leave, but I called him when your plane landed and told him to hold off. What did you find, Adam?"

Methos drank the rest of his beer all in one great gulp, and met Joe's gaze. "I found the end of the Game," he said, and laughed faintly.

Joe looked... concerned. "What do you mean, 'the end of the Game?"

"Imagine an Immortal so strong that he can put a fist through a man's heart without trying hard, and so tough that even being run over by a car doesn't phase him."

Joe's eyes widened. "What's his name?"

"Marcus Hamilton."

"... This could be a problem."

Methos helped himself to another pint.

-------------------------

Wesley nearly staggered when he felt solid earth beneath him once more, and a palpable sense of relief washed over him as he looked up and saw the sky. He had been sure that he was going to die in that god-forsaken world of shrimp. He felt his throat. Yes, those were the bruises one would expect from being nearly strangled to death.

He took in his surroundings. The sky was gray, and it was drizzling. He was standing on the grass in what looked like some sort of city-park, but he didn't recognize it. He sat up. No, he didn't recognize it at all - neither the park, nor city.

Illyria stood beneath a nearby tree, her arms extended, fingers outstretched, eyes shut, her face pointed at the sky. She looked... oddly content, actually. He went to her.

"Illyria," he said.

She turned and met his gaze. "Wesley."

He raised an eyebrow. "So you do know my name, then?"

"I know everything that the Burkle persona knows."

He nodded faintly. "And does she know everything you know?"

"No."

Wesley considered that. Another piece to the puzzle of what was happening in Fred's body. "Where have you brought us?" he asked.

"A place of resonance."

He waited for her to elaborate. She didn't. "I wish to speak to Fred," he said after a moment.

Illyria met his gaze with an imperious look. "I refuse."

For an instant, he felt a terrible, burning rage. He wanted to destroy this creature - this thing that had infested his beloved's body. He wanted to tear it to pieces. He wanted it gone. He shuddered, took a calming breath, and tried again. "Is Fred watching now?" he asked. "Can she hear what you hear?"

Illyria nodded. "She is. She can. You may communicate to her through me if you wish, but I will NOT be subservient to her will." She seemed to think for a moment. "Nor yours," she added.

"Of course not. Though perhaps we may wish to get out of this rain."

"The atmospheric conditions of this pathetic world of humans is of no concern to me," Illyria said.

Wesley grew slightly frustrated. For a moment – and only for a moment – he wished that Spike were here. He seemed well able to convince Illyria to cooperate. "Then you won't mind if we get out of the rain," he said.

She looked confused, and then narrowed her eyes. He was already heading out of the park. "I go because it suits me," she said, and she almost believed it.

As he walked, Wesley glanced about, looking for some sign of where Illyria had taken them. They were still on Earth. Or at least, he thought they were. The citizens of the city around him were human (or looked human). At length, he found a discarded newspaper that revealed the name of the city she'd taken him to: Seacouver. He frowned. Seacouver was quite a ways north of where they had been.

He took out his cell phone and dialed Angel's number.

No answer.

"He never did know how to use one of those," Wesley mused. He glanced over his shoulder to see if Illyria was still following him. She was. He nodded, and then headed for what looked like a promising location – Joe's Blue's Club. At the very least, it would be a place to kill some time until he was able to get through to Angel.

It was quiet – the only people in the club were the old bartender and a youngish man sitting at the bar. The lights were low, but not too low. The atmosphere was a comfortable one.

Illyria stiffened as they walked through the doors, and immediately looked about. The man who had been sitting at the bar looked towards Illyria, and then chugged what was left of his beer, and headed for the back exit.

Wesley stopped short. "What's wrong?"

"That man," she said. "I can feel him." She bared her teeth ever so slightly. "How does a mere human dare to impose his presence upon me? I will not have it."

Wesley grimaced. He'd almost forgotten. Immortality. "Illyria, calm yourself."

She whirled on him. "I do as I please," she said. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to snap him like a twig. She wanted to tear out his eyes for daring to look upon her glory. She wanted to ravish him. She wanted him to love her. Her head was pounding, and she clutched it. "What have you done to me?" she demanded of him once again.

He shook his head. "I've done nothing."

Her eyes seemed to thaw, and then froze again. "Wesley," she whispered. And then her eyes rolled back in her head, and she fainted.

He was at her side in an instant. "Fred?" he asked. "Fred, can you hear me?" He shook her, but she was unresponsive.

Wesley grimaced. Something needed to be done about Illyria. Something needed to be done soon.

---------------------

Far away, Connor sat in his empty home. His family had left some two hours earlier, headed for Vegas for the weekend, at his urging.

It all looked so different when it was dark, and empty. Not that dark had ever bothered him – he could see as well in the dark as in the light. But here, it seemed wrong, somehow. A home shouldn't be empty, and dark, and cold.

He'd heard the car coming up the long dirt drive that led to his home about a minute ago. So now he sat, and waited, and wished that he still had some of the weapons he'd had during that other life.

The door opened, and Lindsey Macdonald walked into Connor's home, sword in hand. He shut the door behind him.

Connor rose to his feet.

"So you're Angel's boy, are you?" Lindsey said. "Brooding look. Caveman brow. I can see the family resemblance. I hear you caused all sorts of trouble for Wolfram and Hart back in the day."

Connor shrugged. "I was a handful. But everyone's entitled to a little teenaged rebellion, aren't they?"

"Sure," said Lindsey. "Though yours wasn't exactly 'little.' Is it true you were there when the Beast took out the old offices? Killed everyone and raised them as his zombie horde?"

He nodded. "It's true."

"That would have been a thing to see. Almost sorry I missed it." He brightened. "But hell, it must be odd for you, sorting through two sets of memories like that. Your life as Angel's son. Your life as Connor Reilly. Which one's true? Which one's the lie? Very tricky."

"Not that tricky."

"Yeah, but doesn't it bug you that Angel finally saved you with yet another lie?"

Connor frowned. "You know a lot about me."

"What can I say? I do my homework."

"I knew you'd come, you know," said Connor, refusing to take the man's bait.

"Did you now? Then I expect you know why I'm here."

"I do."

"This'll go a lot easier for you if you surrender."

Connor shrugged in a noncommittal manner. "It might."

Lindsey frowned. "But you're not going to make this easy for me, are you?"

Connor smirked. "No, I'm really not."

Lindsey raised his sword.

A moment later, the door burst apart, torn in half and right off its hinges by the force of the blow dealt it. Lindsey came flying out into the yard, hit the ground hard, and slid to a halt some five yards from the door. He stood up, brushed himself off, and rubbed his jaw. "Damn. Kid packs a punch."

"So, do you give up, or do I have to hit you some more?" came Connor's resonant voice from inside the house.

"Give up?" Lindsey asked. "Hell, I'm just getting started."

Sword in hand, he attacked, and their meeting was like a battle between wind and water, and the noise of it could not be contained by the house, but spilled out into the forest. Lindsey's heavily enchanted blade shattered the air itself as it passed, each slash met with the crack of the sound catching up with the blade; yet Connor remained untouched, ducking, dodging, and weaving, and counterattacking with a grace that was far, far beyond human.

But then, Lindsey was hardly a normal human himself.

Connor could feel the Destroyer rising up within him, and he let it. His attacks grew more and more savage, his technique more and more brutal. His awareness stretched, and in that moment, he saw the hole in Lindsey's defense – a hole so miniscule that even a master might not have noticed it. But the Destroyer did.

He struck.

And the windows of the house exploded into a thousand glittering shards.

-----------------------

Fred gasped for breath, and came to with a start. "That was bad," she managed between deep, gasping breaths, "but it's better now. You won't leave me?"

"Fred?" Wesley asked. He was at her side almost the same instant that she spoke. After she had collapsed in Joe's Blue's club, Joe had been kind enough to provide her a place to lie down to recover – a hammock he had set up in the back room. Time had passed, though she wasn't sure how much. She looked at the man, standing there by the door, and she was sure that he knew who they were. He had a look of recognition in his eyes, though he didn't say anything about it. Instead, he said, "Is she going to be all right?"

Wesley nodded wearily. "Yes, thank you. She should be fine. She has these fainting spells occasionally, but it's nothing to be concerned about."

Fred sat up.

"Is she...?" Wesley began to ask.

"Still here? Yeah. Sittin' there right behind my eyes." Her eyes were sad, and she looked away.

Joe took a mug and filled it up with water, and then hobbled over to hand it to Fred. "Here, drink some water," he said. "You'll feel better."

As he handed her the mug, Wesley glanced down at his wrist. He glanced down at the man's wrist, and his eyes widened. Fred took the water, and had a sip, and then looked at whatever it was that Wesley had seen.

A watcher's tattoo.

"Fred, we're leaving. Now," Wesley said. For a moment she was tempted to tell him that she did not bend to his whims, but the urge faded quickly, and she was not entirely sure where it had come from. Instead, she tried to rise from the hammock. She was unsuccessful.

"Something the matter?" Joe asked.

Wesley helped Fred out of the hammock, and then turned to glare at Joe. "Leave her alone, Watcher," he said.

Joe winced.

And then, perhaps the worst thing that could have happened did. She felt that strange buzzing sense of another Immortal's presence. "Oh God, not now!" she said.

Wesley did not have time to ask what was wrong before a loud, angry male voice bellowed from the bar, "MACLEOD!"

They made for the back door.

"WHERE ARE YOU HIDING?"

There was the noise of approaching footsteps, and a grizzled, middle-aged man stepped into the room. His eyes met with Fred's, who was nearly out the door at that point, and he smiled unpleasantly. "I was looking for MacLeod," he said, "But I suppose you'll do."

He drew a sword.

"You're in front of witnesses," Joe said warningly.

"And why should I care about that?" the Immortal replied.

Wesley placed himself squarely between Fred and the hostile Immortal. "I won't let you touch her," he said, and Fred backed further towards the door.

The Immortal laughed. Wesley drew a pistol, but the Immortal was quicker. A quick slash to the hand sent both the gun and a small splatter of blood flying into the wall. The gun discharged when it hit the ground, and though the bullet did not hit anyone, it was enough to send the patrons of the club in the other room into a panic. The sound of screaming and of fleeing people filled the air.

Wesley reached for his other pistol, but once again, the Immortal was too quick. He lunged forward and struck Wes hard in the temple with the hilt of his sword. Wesley went down.

Joe meanwhile produced a pistol of his own, but the Immortal simply sneered and kicked his wooden legs out from under him. Joe fell and cracked his head on the floor.

With Wesley now unconscious and Joe recovering from the nasty hit he'd taken to the head, Fred scrambled out the back door and away from the Immortal. "Wait," she said pleadingly, "Please, we can work this out!"

He swung his sword, and she let out a little shriek as she tried to avoid it, but it found its mark. Her skin resisted it – Illyria's presence had left its mark, and even her Immortal regeneration had not fully undone it – but without Illyria's energies actively reinforcing it, it was not impermeable. The sword scraped across her collarbone, cutting deep into her flesh, albeit with difficulty. She fell backwards against the outer wall of the building. "Please," she said.

The Immortal looked at her impassively. "There's nothing to work out, little miss Texas," and he spoke with a mocking faux Texan drawl. "There can be only one."

He raised his sword, and then brought it down upon her neck in a swift, smooth arc. Yet even as it descended, Fred's eyes seemed to freeze.

Her entire demeanor changed, all of her flighty, nervous mannerisms gone, replaced in an instant by cool arrogance and the assurance of command.

Joe had managed to get back to his feet, and began to raise the gun. But it was too late.

The Immortal noticed the change in Fred, but he certainly didn't stop the decapitating swing of his sword. He barely had time to register that there was something wrong before his sword connected with her neck... and shattered, sending metal fragments flying everywhere.

Joe's jaw dropped open.

Illyria rose to her feet, cold and imperious. Her gaze could have frozen the sun itself. "You have attempted to bring harm to my shell," she intoned. It was surprisingly draining, manifesting herself in this way, shoving the Burkle Persona aside and assuming control of their shared body. It didn't used to be. The thought annoyed her almost as much as this creature's attempt on her life.

"What the hell?" the Immortal asked, and took a step away from the woman.

He didn't move quickly enough. With the speed of a viper, Illyria surged forward, seized the Immortal by the throat, and threw him bodily into the back wall of Joe's Blue's Club. The force of the impact stunned him, and he looked stupidly up at the Old One in human form, unable to comprehend what was happening. "What? Wait..."

But Illyria neither waited nor abated. Instead, she seized the Immortal's arm, and in one great wrench, tore it off.

Blood splattered everywhere, and the man screamed in agony as the sound of bones snapping like kindling filled the night. She took his severed arm and tossed it aside. He laughed deliriously, staring into her cold, pitiless eyes. He saw his death. He saw the death of every Immortal. He saw the end of the Game forever.

And then she made a trophy of his spine.

When Wesley awoke, he was quick to return to his feet. He looked at Joe, who was standing as one transfixed, staring mutely out the back door of his club, his face the very picture of total and complete shock.

Wesley looked.

There, in the alleyway, Illyria crouched over the mangled corpse of the Immortal who had challenged her, feasting upon his heart's blood. The air was thick with the smell of blood, and the features of his beloved Fred were splattered with red. In one hand, she held the man's severed spine. In the other, she held what was left of his heart.

The immortal's body lay cold and still upon the ground. His head was only partially severed, still linked to shoulders by torn muscle and flesh. His face was frozen in an expression of abject terror.

And then she turned towards him. Her eyes met his, and she held out her hand, offering him the last of the Immortal's heart. "Eat," she said, with every expectation of being obeyed. "Eat and grow strong. I will not have a guide who is not strong enough to play his part."

Wesley shuddered.

Yes, they were definitely going to have to do something about Illyria.

-------------------

"How is she?" Angel asked. He was speaking into his cell phone. Their car was now well into Oregon, and it was night.

"She's sleeping now," came Wesley's voice from the other end. "But Angel, what Illyria did..."

"You know what she is, Wes. Did you really expect anything different?"

"No." There was silence on the other end for a moment. "She said that if I did not make Fred able to defend herself without the need for her to intervene, she would have to take 'measures of her own.'"

Angel nodded, and then immediately felt silly for nodding at the cell phone. "So train her."

"But..."

"Train her, Wes. She's not some delicate flower. She survived five years in a hell dimension. She survived Illyria. Train her to survive this."

Wesley was silent again, and then he spoke, his voice weary. "I will train her."

"We should be there in a few days. I'll call when we're a bit closer."

"Yes. Goodbye."

Wesley hung up, and Angel did the same a moment later.

-------------------

And far away, in the San Rafael Mountains near Santa Barbara, Connor ran.

It was night, and he was surrounded by forest, and he ran: through tree-shadow, over root, and under bough. His pursuers followed, but he was the Destroyer. He grinned a feral grin. They might chase him now, but soon the hunters would be the hunted.

One of them was right on his heels. He slid to a stop in front of an old, gnarled tree and turned around, and the vamp came on. At the last possible moment, Connor stepped smoothly out of the way.

The vampire, unable to halt his forward momentum in time, slammed hard against the tree. More to the point, he slammed hard against the short, thick, sharp branch that Connor had stopped just short of. It pierced his heart, and he exploded into a cloud of dust.

Connor was vaguely disappointed that the creature left no corpse, even as he had known it would not. But the rest of the pack was approaching, and he had no time to linger. He snapped off the branch that the vampire had impaled himself on, and ran on. This, he knew, was the best way he could fight such a mob. Run. Let them chase you. Some of them would run faster than the others. It turned what could have been a fight of twelve against one into twelve fights of one against one, and those odds were much more to his liking.

Back in the cabin Connor called home, Lindsey sheathed his sword. He had to admit, the boy was good. Lindsey was a master swordsman with quite a bit of magic backing him up, and he'd been unable to overcome the kid. But the kid had run, and he'd sent his backup after him – a dozen powerful vampires.

He shook his head ruefully. It had been a simple enough plan. Get in, grab the kid, and hold him hostage until Angel showed up to play the part of the noble, self-sacrificing hero like he always did – for truth, justice, absolute good, and all that nonsense. Why did things always have to get so complicated?

END CHAPTER 6

--------------

Author's Notes:  
I was dissatisfied with the version of this chapter that I originally posted, and so went and revised it, though not before accidently deleting it (grumbles) and having to repost it.

Changes made: an additional scene added, several scenes altered, some explanation offered as to why Illyria can't just take permanent control of Fred's body, and a hint dropped as to why Seacouver was chosen as her final portal destination. Connor material retouched and expanded slightly.


End file.
